Compelled
by himawarixxsandz
Summary: You are Compelled to be who you are by who you were born as. AU. Sequel to Intrigue. Third in series.
1. Teaser

We are never satisfied with simply being intrigued.

We always are compelled to explore what it is that intrigues us.

* * *

Lovelies!

I've returned! Did you miss me?

Well. I don't know _what_ I was thinking asking that question! Ah. I do so love myself.

But tell me now, are you surprised? Were you? Or did you love them? They aren't very…mature, are they? Although, if they were, it wouldn't be any fun at all watching them—actually, there'd be no point in watching them. You can find mature young adults anywhere. But you can only find these bitches right here.

So, let's recap, shall we?

W's an angsty little ball of ugly-duckling-complex-with-a-side-of-homophobia, who D is completely in love with, and D's trying to make W jealous by going out with Y, who's secretly (or not so secretly) in love with A, who's trying to figure out what the hell F's up to, and at the same time wondering which twin he should pick as his life-screwing partner and muse.

Okay. Halfway done here, keep up, darlings.

King T's in love with Y II, who happens to be his younger sister's boyfriend, but Princess S loves Sir F, who King T really doesn't like, and Y II doesn't like much either although he won't admit it, because Sir F is a bit of a druggie.

Just a bit.

Anyway.

K-kun's just screwed Madame A, and got a two-for, by helping Madame A become Madame A, and getting revenge on M for screwing around on K-tan with the Maestro, who's screwing around with S, but S loves the Maestro all the same, and keeps plowing through, even though the Maestro basically told S to fuck off. But the Maestro really does love S, who's brother, deary K, has just begun interning for moi, while having the Maestro's brother, Captain F on his tail (literally) even though deary K has taken some sort of retarded chastity oath because S isn't getting his one true love, and deary K's just an honorable little brother that way.

But he still loves Captain F. A lot.

Oh. And F's still having nightmares and seizures and getting tortured by Dr. K on a daily basis. But hey, what's new?

So, my sweetlings, you've witnessed each and every one of these butterflies—really, right now they're just caterpillars—become intrigued with one another. Now, let's watch and see what they'll be compelled to do.

That is, if you still want to.

Do you?

* * *

_A/N: This will make more sense if you go to my profile for the update._


	2. Return

Chapter One: Return

In two different houses, and two different neighborhoods, four different cell phones began to beep. And in one of those two houses, in one room and from one bed, a pale hand shot out beneath a tangle of blankets and limbs—that didn't necessarily belong to only one person—and blindly, but neatly aimed for the single button on the side of the Blackberry. As soon as it ceased to beep, there was a violent rustle of movement from one of the bedded bodies, and Fuuma Sakurazuka landed on the floor—naked and half-asleep, but grinning.

In the room besides, an identical pale hand stumbled out of the blankets and padded clumsily on the table for at least half a minute before finding the Nokia handheld and slamming it into silence. Then, the pale hand retracted back into the duvet and fell still. At least, until Fuuma Sakurazuka came walking past in the same clothes he'd worn the night before and said to the unmoving lump on the bed, "Kamui told me to tell you to either wake up or he'll stick your trumpet up your ass."

Across the span of about twelve to fifteen miles—depending on the route one took—in the second house of the two aforementioned houses, in one bedroom, from the bed at the left of the room, a hand more defined in bones and tendons than the last two—a hand more slender—reached out to grab the beeping Razr and banged it on the table loudly for three thuds until it fell silent, and the hinge cracked.

From the opposing bed, the same hand—in appearance—reached out sluggishly and calmly quieted the Blackjack from its insistent beeping. The body that belonged to this hand was the first one up. It was pale, and slender, and much too thin to be called healthy. But eerily perfect.

Veined eyelids—so pale, they were almost translucent—heavily blinked up and down, exposing pools of a blue that mimicked the sky. As he stood up, and the blankets fell down to show that his body was bare save for the sweat pants that clung reluctantly to his legs, the identical body from the other bed also removed itself and stood, showing that it wore nothing at all. Sleepily, they walked side by side to the doorway embedded at the south end of the room, and shut the door.

In the first house, in the first bedroom, Kamui Sumeragi loped in from his bathroom, shivering only slightly as the steam receded and the cold of his bedroom rushed at him—naked and wet. He tossed the towel from his waist and stood in front of the mirror, bringing the towel to his hair and commencing to dry it. His eyes—a shade cutting between slate gray and steel blue—drank in his reflection, approving of the pale skin that'd never once known defects (especially none so mythical as a pimple, my God), until, at least, they reached his throat and chest. The area was smothered with splotches of blue and purple.

As he reached for a small glass bottle in the shape of a medieval phial, uncapped it, poured the liquid into the palm of his hand and began purposely ruffling his damp hair through with it, he vowed that by lunch this afternoon, Fuuma Sakurazuka's blood would stain all of Maikeru. He picked up the hairdryer and aimed it at his head like one would a gun, and clicked the on switch.

In the room next door, Subaru Sumeragi let his towel fall to the floor, and surveyed his naked body in the mirror hanging on his wall before him. His hands gripped the table, and his head bowed slightly. A finger traced the cut that went from his shoulder to the corner of his waist at a diagonal across his chest and stomach. A palm padded carefully against the large bruise blossoming at the left of his pelvis. He reached for a comb and began untangling his hair.

Delicate, deft white fingers eased through tangled hair like corn silk, untangling, only to tousle it up further with a solution that resembled something one would find in the depths of a mentally impaired scientist's laboratory. Eyes the precise color of a happy sky stared straight at the angelic face reflected in the mirror. The creamy pale fingers moved down to the stiff, starched collar and threaded it through with cobalt tie.

Beside Fai Fluorite, Yuui Fluorite looked into the mirror directly on the left of his brother's, he himself still outstandingly naked. His brother didn't particularly favor looking at his own flawed bare body. But he himself did. He tossed his head around, assuring that his hair was even more mussed than his brother's, and poured an almost ridiculously huge amount of the same frightening-colored solution into his hand and punished it through his hair.

Kamui Sumeragi bent over and shook his head like a dog, then canvassed himself in the mirror, his eyes narrowing studiously at his hair's achieved state of perfect disarray. Fingers rearranged a few strands here and there, until satisfaction was reached. He glanced at the black boxer briefs set folded on his bed, and snorted, then turned to raise his eyebrows, as his hands went to his pants, zippered them, and buttoned up his shirt, leaving the top three open, and wounding his tie through the collar and tying it loosely, before flicking the collar to stand straight up around his throat like some sort of schoolboy vampire.

Subaru Sumeragi cuffed his sleeves and rolled them back up until they reached his elbow. He pushed his tie up, stopping only when the knot was centimeters away from closing over his neck. Hands pushed the waistband of his pants down till at least a full inch of his boxer briefs were unearthed. Fingers tucked his shirt loosely.

While Kamui Sumeragi and Yuui Fluorite asked their mirrors to come hither, their twins begged their mirrors to neither hurt them nor leave them.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Though not fair from such the eye can see, but fair from which one heart is free.

Well, if that's what you need, Mirror, then you'll be better off searching elsewhere. Around here, the outside is all these cocoons have.

* * *

_Good morning, my butterflies. How are we today? As usual, on ever Back-to-School day, I'm welcoming the newest members of our Holy Trinity, along with sharing some hints on who might be joining us next year, and who'll definitely be joining us next year because if they didn't, it means that the apocalypse is approaching._

_As you might—oh, really, as you all must have heard this last beautiful spring break, while you were all away skiing in Aspen, improving on your tan in Cabo, cruising through the Caribbean, or destroying clubs in Bali, we have two new Sacreds with us this wonderful year._

_And as you walk onto campus and admire the spectacular foliage, you'll also be able to admire Madame A in her sister's brand new fall line that is supposedly to be suited for all-school-purposes, but really, truthfully, I rather think it was designed so that Madame A could play "Punish me, sensei" between periods._

_However._

_And if Madame A isn't your cup of tea—one way or the other—then you'll just turn your eyes to another magnificent piece of work, an A of another type. This A stands for Artist. And who wouldn't love to take in a starving, angsty, young artist—become his muse and ride him all night long and have a whirlwind, tragic romance? Keep your hands (and other extremities) down girls—and boys—because he's already taken._

_Oh, and even though none of you have heard—because this task completion was so utterly last minute—we also have a brand new Divine. But really, Miss Y, from what I remember about campus regulations, I thought students weren't allowed to have huge, barreling, canines?_

_But you're so adorable, I guess the administrations just let you do that anyway._

_Or maybe it's because Daddy is chief of police._

_But wait! Even though they aren't part of our Trinity, these two are so ah-mazing and delicious that I just have to tell you about them. You see, darlings, we have another Y—we'll just call him Y II. And better yet, sweethearts, we have royalty coming._

_"Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. Hail, the conquering hero comes."_

_Welcome to Kuriakiri, King T._

_Oh, but just remember, Your Highness—when you play King and Servant with Y II, it's not nice to tie him up again, okay?_

_All righty, then._

_--Forget the W in bWitch and you die._

* * *

Kimihiro Watanuki fixed his glasses still on the bridge of his nose and surveyed the courtyard with some sense of ease. Had he been the person he was only four months ago, the nervousness would be eating his stomach. Now, all he did was run a hand through his hair, shrug his shoulder, and headed for the office.

Shizuka Doumeki looked at his chauffeur and gave him the glance that meant he could drive away. He then glanced lazily at the students that were beginning to arrive, and the teachers that hurried to get to their coffee before the morning truly started. He sighed, bored, yawned and made his feet lead him to the office to fetch his schedule for the next eight months.

A long, lean leg stuck itself out of the car door and Kurogane You-ou straightened up, squinting down, because really, it seemed like everyone had grown shorter over the summer. He rumpled his hair for good measure and headed for the office to get his schedule and hope that the line wasn't too long, or he might have to put his skills to good use before first period began on the first day.

Mioru Aoi didn't waste a single second watching his Town car drive away. He looked to his left and saw that Syaoran was already beside him, and the captain grinned to himself, pushed his hands into his pockets, and began walking toward Maikeru's administrative office building.

Fai Fluorite extricated himself from the car, and looked over his shoulder, waiting for his brother to finish coming out after him suit. The twins glanced smiling out at the courtyard, and saluted their chauffeur as the okay for him to drive away. Yuui shook his hair out, tousling the blond perfection even more, and then slapped his brother on the back. They grinned at each other and started to walk.

Tomoyo Daidoji dusted off her absurdly short seersucker uniform skirt, and fingered one soft black curl that'd come loose from the avidly pile of dark hair balanced on top of her head. One gloved hand reached into her purse and pushed a pair of sleek Ray Bans over her eyes. She smiled and strolled forward.

Fuuma Sakurazuka yawned into a grin, and brushed his hair forward in the manner that had become so common amongst boys his age. He pulled the shirt that his maid had forced to tuck, and yanked it out until it hung over his pants and loosened his tie nearly all the way. He pushed the signature sunglasses onto his face, and nodded to his chauffeur; after watching the car speed away, he ran his fingers through his still-damp hair and lounged toward Maikeru.

Kamui and Subaru Sumeragi didn't look back as their driver eased away. The brothers had looks of complete disinterest carefully displayed on their faces as they took in the sight of the students milling about the courtyard, welcoming each other after the long summer. They met eyes just briefly, and after Kamui fingered his collar, and Subaru adjusted his belt-less pants, they loped forward.

Even in the dull heat that stubbornly resided in August, the month caught between the end of summer, and the beginning of autumn, there was something that prickled through the air as these remaining nine calmly and serenely walked into yet another year in the life that one would have to be insane to live, and that made one who lived it insane.

But it was in everyone's minds, undoubtedly:

_They've returned._

* * *

_A/N: I hope this is the BANG!FirstChapter! that this story deserves to start out with. If not.....well....0_0. Oh, btw, to prove more of my inadequacy in the simplest things, remember when in the Great Escape chapter of Intrigue, I'd said "thirteen people/kids/teenagers" or whatever in reference to our gang? Well, I must've miscounted, since there were actually fourteen. So yes. I'm an algebra student that cannot count up to twenty. Sorry, guys. 0_0_

_Anyhow, the whole sequence that flashed back and forth to the Sumeragi and Fluorite twins getting ready for school is from a sequence in the beginning of one of the very early GG episodes, Poison Ivy. Oh, and if you noticed that there was a lot of emphasis on the characters' hair, it's because I've always thought that there is NO WAY that CLAMP's men can have such nice hair by rolling out of bed and doing nothing. I refuse to believe it, because some mornings, if my hair was a person, I would stab it to death ferociously. _


	3. Detective

Chapter Two: Detective

"Did you find anything?" Amaterasu asked. She drummed her Red Door-manicured fingernails mindlessly against the wooden library table. Her legs were crossed at the top, preventing any hopeful eyes from nearby male students to catch a sneak peek of what lay beneath her skirt. There was a small crease between her eyebrows as she waited for Ashura to finish skimming through the thick file currently before him.

Ashura slammed it shut, and shoved it to the side violently enough that it almost sent the rest of the piles of paper careening from the table. He ran a hand over his face and fisted it against his temple. "Nothing. Just birth records—the same stuff I've found everywhere else."

The cellist clicked her tongue, staring at him. "You know, sometimes the reason you can't find what you're looking for is because there's nothing there in the first place. How do you even know you interpreted whatever it is that they were talking about, which you won't tell me, correctly? What are you looking for anyway?"

Ashura's eyes daggered her. "I know what I heard, and there was nothing to interpret. And I'm looking for…I'll…I'll know it when I see it. And I'll see it sooner or later. Something, anything has got to be here—if I look hard enough."

"I heard it's affecting your work."

His head flipped up. "What?"

"You should know by now that one slip spreads rumors like wildfire when you're a Sacred. And I shouldn't have to hear this like some gossip mongrel. But you've been so busy that you haven't been reading bWitch. She said that you're so preoccupied hunting and searching that you're pieces have gone an entire grade down. She also said that any more of this and you might as well be selling pictures of sailboats like the ones in Target." Amaterasu raised her eyebrows pointedly.

But Ashura would be a liar if he said that he'd heard everything she'd just relayed to him. His eyes were focused on Amaterasu's face, and his ears were intact, but his mind was folding in on itself—gearing and calculating and thinking as hard as it could without steam coming out of his ears. Asking Fai and Yuui straight up what was going on was ridiculous. Things didn't work that way—they never worked that way, and for a good damn reason.

He might just be an artist—a fucking good one—but some might use that as a way to say that all he could do was express himself, because there was nothing else for him to do. In other words, he just had too much soul, and not enough mind. Which, of course, was extremely out of proportion. Ashura was smart. Catastrophically smart. And one of his potential choices, had he not chosen to be an artist, had actually been to be a private detective—the kind that tackled million dollar cases, where even more money was rode on. His deduction skills were frightening, and he knew it. But for some reason, it was clogged when it came to this matter.

Ashura could simply not figure out. He'd even gotten out all of his old boxes, filled with when he thought his calling was to be a detective—all of the notebooks, and diagrams, and equipment that some detectives couldn't afford in their entire life, and he'd gotten as birthday presents. He didn't really need them now for this; he just needed to get back into the swing of things, and the notebooks were the most important part.

He'd even recorded the exact conversation. But all he could glean from it was that Fai felt awful about the fact that whenever they were about to have sex, somehow and someway, Fai always backed out; and that there was something that both twins knew that Yuui thought Ashura should know, but Fai didn't. Ashura's goal was to find out at least one clue about what that "something" could possibly be. Fai's first words about how "he" would have a lot waiting for him could point to anything. Even in the context he said it. Homework, money, jobs, unpleasant errands, violin pieces….

Of course, considering Yuui's soon following "I hate him", it couldn't be something as easy or pleasant as what Ashura came up with for possible answers to what Fai first said. Which made everything else conflict together, thus coming up with more wonderful nothing.

So Ashura had attacked the records—on the Internet, in the library, in the files, in the rectory…everywhere. And nothing. Yes, he found a few birth records—all the same information and repeated copies—for Yuui and Fai, and even a few of the orphanage admissions, and an adoption file or two about when Kyle took them in, but nothing else. There were also the school records that he'd immediately dismissed. And a miniscule note on Yuui's asthma medicine and the like. But that was about it—simply the ordinary records and files anyone would have, socialite or not.

The way Amaterasu eyed him from across the wide, circular table made it known to Ashura for certain. He was at a dead end. A wide brick corner with nowhere else to go but backward—retrace his steps and find another pathway that might possibly lead him through. He couldn't go forward—he couldn't go sideways. Just back. And if he went back and there was still nothing, then he really might never find out.

Unless, of course, he went up. Toward the sky—meaning, he confronted the twins, and ask them directly what is it that could be so important they couldn't tell even him. He, who'd die for both of them.

Who loved both of them.

Who loved one of them in a way that he knew he shouldn't.

A, there's one thing that you should always remember when you're searching—for anything. Even if you come at a dead end, even if there really is nothing to search for a nothing to find…there will always be something there for you to see. You just have to look hard enough. And the good thing about searching is that there's no time limit, and you can retrace your steps a million times. The bad part is that if whatever you're looking for actually does exist…if you take too long, someone else might find it before you. Either way, it'll be gone.

* * *

Kamui shoved Fuuma off the bed, and thwacked him on the head. "No," the writer said furiously. "Absolutely not. Not after last time, and certainly not after this afternoon. Besides, my parents aren't jet setting until next week, which means they could be home. Moreover, our maids are here for their shift. They could hear us. And lastly, I don't want another map of Japan hickey-ed onto my chest like last time for my entire gym class to view, courtesy of Fuuma Sakurazuka."

Fuuma smiled pleasantly, looking quite unabashed for someone who'd just stripped himself to his underwear—along with his partner—and then was unceremoniously knocked overboard. He leaned back, seeming perfectly fine with sitting on the plush carpet beneath the bed. "I've taken quite a liking to geography, haven't you?"

"Not in that way, no," Kamui said flatly, although he didn't bother to redo his shirt, leaving it open, and the hickeys on blatant display. Fuuma admired his handiwork. At times, an angered Kamui was terrifying. But other times, it was just amusing—plus, it was great sport. "One more—Subaru is next door. And your jackass brother is still screwing around."

Fuuma had long since learned the art of treading carefully whenever he was pushed headlong into waters as dangerous as these. One mismatched move and he could be sunk. He sighed tiredly, and looked up at Kamui without a smile. "Look. You could hate Seishiro like hell, and you still can't persuade Subaru, your brother, to do just like you. It's the same for me. Just because he's my brother doesn't mean I can do anything to make him change. Blood is thicker than water, but in the end, it's just that. Blood. You're two different people—even if you _were_ from the same egg. You know that."

Kamui slid off the bed and into Fuuma's lap. "It hurts him. I know it does. Whenever he sees us—I look like him, and you look like Seishiro," he whispered. "It hurts him, and I watch it every _day_." He pushed himself away from the athlete. Silently, he turned his back and let the remaining article of clothing—his open shirt—fall from his body. His hand wrapped around the worn, oversized cashmere sweater that was slung over the post of his bed and pulled it over his head. It reached just below the tops of his thighs, shrouding his body, and clinging to it at the same time. An antithesis.

If only Fuuma could tell him. If only Fuuma could tell the boy stripping, and changing before him so casually exactly how much it hurt when he teased Fuuma like this. Talking about their brothers' problems, and not even acknowledging the fact that they had problems of their own—that Kamui was naked, well, he'd been naked, but the sweater didn't change much, and Fuuma wanted to screw him, and Kamui didn't even care.

But if it were just that, Fuuma wouldn't be seriously irritated. But he was seriously irritated because it wasn't even close to just that. It was so much fucking more. And Fuuma wanted to say this to Kamui. So badly. But he couldn't. If he scared Kamui, the writer might run for it. And an uncaring, unknowing Kamui was far less painful than no Kamui at all.

Is it really, Captain F?

Kamui returned his body to face Fuuma. His eyes searched the sophomore's expression closely. Fuuma kept his eyes and mouth carefully neutral. Kamui sighed, smiling resignedly. "Put your clothes on and call home, all right?"

"Are you kicking me out?" Fuuma grinned, as he always and usually did, but his heart thudded unevenly, not knowing if it was hurting him, or if it was just a mistaken thought.

Kamui had reassumed his seat on the edge of his bed. He gave Fuuma a look that suggested that he thought the athlete needed a day off or two to spend in the local asylum. "No. You're staying the night, of course. That is, if you want to."

"Where would I sleep?"

"On the roof," Kamui said irritably. "No, you moron. You're sleeping with me. And maybe, if you want, I could call my brother and yours over and we could have a foursome."

"So the roof it is?" Fuuma laughed.

Kamui shrugged, tipping his head suggestively at the bed. "You should probably ask your driver to drop you off a change of clothes, too. There's school tomorrow and I don't want people to get the wrong idea."

Fuuma raised an eyebrow. "If you really cared about what people thought, then you would've actually worn underwear on the first day. And don't give me that look—I just heard about it from some kid who was trying out for the team. Hey, don't give me that look either. It's not like anyone _checked_, or anything. It was probably just obvious—your guys' uniform pants aren't as dark as ours, and not as thick either."

They stared at each other. Then the writer smacked Fuuma's arm, and pounced on him, knocking them both to the floor. "Why've you got to be such a perve?" Kamui's voice rose. "You were doing me with your eyes the entire day, weren't you? Don't lie to me, I know you were."

Fuuma smiled brightly up into the senior's face. "And if I was?"

Another pause.

Kamui hung his head and sighed. He reached over to the bottom drawer that was now level to their bodies. His hand came back with a small flat square packaging. He tore it open with his teeth. "I'm warning you—if I can't walk tomorrow, I'll make sure you don't get any for two weeks," the writer said as he twirled the condom between his fingers and began drifting low on Fuuma. The athlete just gave a grin of supposed-obedience, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes and thought about how nice it would be if Kamui stopped talking so much and used his mouth for more…productive activities such as these.

* * *

Sakura poked her head out of the covers and rolled over on to her stomach. Her feet batted at the pillow, and her hands curled over the top of the bed's footboard. She rested her chin on the wood, and surveyed the shirtless boy that was sitting cross-legged on the floor, attempting to sort of endless sheaves of loose-leaf into three measly binders. "I'm pretty sure trying to reorganize your history notes isn't the most romantic thing to do after sex," she said.

"I have to do it some time." Fuuka peered at one particular piece of paper, and after a minute or so, he triumphantly placed it into the binder at his left. "Besides, I thought you were still sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you. But if you want, there's some water and chips in my brother's room. He's at soccer practice; he won't care."

"It's the one next door, right?" She put her elbows up on the hard surface.

"Yeah."

"Is anyone else home yet?"

"No." He tossed her underwear to her. "Don't bring me any back—I'm not hungry. I've just got to get all this crap figured out…" He frowned sadly to himself and looked back down at the terrifying sea of notes-filled paper he was drowning in.

Sakura couldn't help but laugh at his expression while she slipped her camisole and boy-shorts on underneath the duvet. He was just such a _guy_. And she loved him for it. Not to say she didn't miss Yukito…but…he was the Prince-Charming-sweeps-you-off-your-feet kind of guy that every girl wanted when she was about six. As soon as she was actually old enough to do things with him, she knew vaguely that she didn't really want that kind of guy any more. She wanted a _real_ boy. If she'd known that Yukito was gay and her idiotic-stubborn-I-shouldn't-tell-anyone-what-I-really-feel-because-I'm-a-guy of an older brother, then she would've match-made them together ages ago…probably with the assistance of Tomoyo Daidoji.

But anyway. She kicked the duvet down and stood up, padding across the carpeted room with bare feet. The gymnast bent down to kiss Fuuka on the cheek—even with the look of concentration on his face, and determinedly indifferent expression, he flushed bright red—and giggled softly, walking out of the door and weaving in to the room on the left of it.

She was halfway into the room, opening the door herself, without noticing that the bed pushed beneath the window at the farthest wall from the door possessed an occupant. An occupant whose wide amber eyes were staring at her, and whose mouth had fallen into his lap. Their eyes met for about half a second, before Sakura started to stutter, and fold her bare arms, and this boy—Syaoran, obviously—started sputtering apologies and averting his gaze.

"Um," Sakura said, bright red, "Fuuka told me that you'd be at soccer practice."

Syaoran squeaked, "I was. But it was cancelled. So I came home. Um…you wanted food…right? It's…um…over there…" His voice drifted into silence rather pitifully, as he pointed to the bottom drawer of his dresser. "I'm er, really sorry, by the way. Really."

Sakura blinked as she knelt by the drawer, opened it and gathered a few bags of chips and water bottles into her arms. "That's all right. It's not your fault that practice was cancelled or anything—I'm a gymnast and it happens to us with our meets all the time. No big deal. I probably should've knocked anyway." She straightened, and smiled at him. "Right?"

"N-no," Syaoran was determinedly staring at her face—and not very successfully keeping his eyes from slipping down. "I should've called…and…not…y'know…I don't know…um…are you sure you don't want any more?" He shrugged toward the dresser. "I don't eat that much—I usually just keep it here in case Fuuma gets hungry."

She frowned. "Why can't he have it in his room?"

He avoided her gaze, his eyes lowering to the floor. "Because it's too hard for him to have food without getting reminded of crystal," he said quietly. "He doesn't like having food that he's not going to eat right away so close to him. But he eats a lot whenever he feels…I don't know…bad, I guess, in place of crystal."

"Oh." She didn't quite know what else to say. "Oh. Okay. Sorry for asking." She managed to conjure another easy smile for him, before turning around and heading out the door. Then, she stopped, "Oh yeah," she laughed, "I can't believe I forgot my name. It's Sakura. I'm really good at introductions usually—they're my favorite part. I already know you. But I haven't actually met you, so I thought I'd tell you my name." Syaoran looked absolutely lost—but amused. "It's Sa-ku-ra. Remember, all right?"

It wasn't until she left and closed the door behind her that Syaoran took a deep breath and pulled a single knee up against his chest and closed his eyes, murmuring to himself, "I don't need to remember. I already knew your name."

* * *

_A/N: Just saying, but Confirmation + Band Concert + Violin Rehearsal + All in the same day from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. = An exhausted Himawari-chan. I had to change twice--I don't see why I couldn't have worn jeans to Confirmation since the robe covers it all, except for the heels--and wear two sets of different heels for the band thing and confirmation, so now I'll probably need a wheelchair. I'll probably be blind, too, since parents can't seem to comprehend that bright flashing lights from cameras (even huge professional ones, with the sideways umbrellas) aren't GOOD for eighth graders' eyesights, especially flashing done in succession. And I had to wear my band clothes (and heels) to violin since there wasn't enough time to change. Plus, it was raining all day, and Rain = Lots of Worms, which I am deathly afraid of, and I really would rather not get dead squished worm on the edge of a heel, then forcing me to somehow peel it off later on. But this chapter was sitting half-finished in my thumb drive all week, and I wasn't able to get the strength to finish it any day of this week because of confirmation practice and band rehearsals, but now everything is OVER (WHOOT), so here it is, and the next chapter of Impulse (more great SubaruxSeishiroxangstxhot) is coming up, most likely tomorrow night. _

_I know the Twilight Movie sucked, but who here's hoping for New Moon anyway? _

_By the way, just as a warning/preview/hint/something, Ashura is eventually going to enlist the help of a Sacred--who happens to be a senior--because her father is one of the most private, top detectives in the country. She's Fuuma and Seishiro's cousin. She'll be the one to choose Kamui as her replacement when she graduates this year. Just guess. 0_0_


	4. Decisions

Chapter Three: Decisions

Subaru unclenched his eyes and gasped out, slumping to the ground, and thumping the base of his skull back against the wall. He winced at both the aftermath of the orgasm, and the pain that refused to recede from his chest and back—outer and inner. It wasn't the first time he'd felt something tear, but this time it felt like more than just something that would heal easily.

Seishiro had already turned his back and was buttoning his shirt, and zippering his pants. He never removed his clothes—it was always Subaru that had to strip naked. "Hurry up," the Maestro said indifferently. "You know I don't have a roommate, but there _are_ rooms next door. I don't want them to hear."

The trumpeter didn't want to move—he could probably move if he tried hard enough, but he knew it would hurt to move. A lot. And if he moved, he doubted the ability to restrain himself from having his face reveal what he was thinking at the moment. Something that Seishiro could absolutely not see. He was just lucky this time that the wall had just caused bruises, and not a wall with photo frames like numerous times during summer vacation. Bleeding and scars were harder to mask.

"Could I use the shower?" His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. Seishiro didn't even look at him, but the conductor nodded barely. Subaru gathered his clothes from the floor and stumbled to the bathroom, guiding himself with one hand on the wall.

He shut the door behind him, locked it weakly, and the slid down onto the cold stone tiles. The lights hurt his eyes, and his head pounded. He shielded his eyes with an arm and lay against the door, listening for any sign of movement from the other side. Nothing. Seishiro must've gone out. There had been a small click of the door, after all.

Subaru opened his eyes as slowly as he could. He stared ahead steadily, and breathed in and out. In and out. In…and out. He placed a hand against his throat and sighed. In. And. Out. In and…out. Calm. Stay calm. He couldn't panic. In. Out. He'd gone through this before. He knew how the routine went. In. Out. As long as he followed what he knew, he'd be fine as always. In. Out. It was useless to cry over it—to mull over it, and moreover, useless to tell anyone about it. Especially Kamui. In. Out. In. Out. In—

But even if you went through a terrible ordeal at a monthly, weekly, even a daily regularity, it didn't make the ordeal any less worse. You could become accustomed to it, but it didn't mean you'd like it any more than you stared out. And sometimes, if the situation was horrible enough, at one point or another, everything would come crashing down around you because there was always only so much one person could take by him or herself.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He. Couldn't. Breathe. Blood was pounding in his ears—threatening to break his eardrums. There was this constraining feeling in his chest, and every time he tried to take a breath, all he heard was some violent swishing sound. Was it…him? Was he the one breathing like that? He could feel something moving erratically…but…he didn't think it could be himself—his chest. He was…was he…?

Hyperventilating.

The realization made it worse. Because he knew what was happening, he wanted to stop it. But he couldn't. The need to make the ventilating stop only served to make it worse. He struggled to stand up—to splash cold water on his face or something—but when he finally managed to, the blood streamed down his thigh, and he was made acutely aware of the stinging, tearing pain. The hyperventilation worsened further, if that was possible. He was shaking now. That was how wracking they'd gotten.

It wasn't just painful breaths anymore—he could hear his _voice_. He wasn't even fully conscious of it, but it sounded like he was begging himself to stop the attack. To calm himself. Was…did this mean he was talking to himself? His mind was spiraling in his head. His head hurt, his ears deafened, his mouth tasted acrid, and his hands pressed against his stomach desperately. _Stop_. Why couldn't he stop? He needed air. He needed to breathe. He felt sick. Air. Oxygen.

His hands reached for the toilet instinctively, and he slammed the seat up. He bowed his head and let the thick fluid flood out of his mouth. His ears cringed at the sound of himself retching, and he coughed up far more than just half-digested food. It looked like he'd thrown up the gallons from when he'd sucked Seishiro off. Subaru's head pounded faster and harder, and his heart was racing about a mile per second.

It was staring to hurt—the sharp, uncontainable breaths were increasing in rapidity and volume. His eyes felt like they were being bonded into his head—embedded with some kind of thick, constraining rubber band. It hurt. Stop. He needed to stop. But how? He was getting scared—frightened out of his mind. He didn't know how to stop. All he knew was that if he didn't…what if he…

What if he couldn't breathe? What if…?

The lights dizzied him, and he held on tighter to the edge of the toilet bowl. He braced himself again with both hands, bent his head, and let loose once more. The contents spat against the walls of the basin as he sputtered and coughed. That round did something—it somehow served to unplug his throat. He could breathe.

It was relief. Pure, sweet, unadulterated relief. But it was terrifying relief. After the hyperventilating had stopped, he could look back on it in hindsight, and it was clearer than ever what'd just happened to him and why. He didn't want to face it, but it was staring at him in the face—when he turned his gaze elsewhere, it would jump back into his line of sight. No matter how hard he looked away, it was always there. Always.

"What the hell happened here?"

Subaru's body froze at the voice. Hadn't he locked the door? He swore that he'd locked the door first thing after he closed it. Had he not pressed it with enough force? He remembered his fingers brushing over it aimlessly—he might've missed the lock button completely…he'd felt half dead at the moment…

He didn't turn around. He stilled to complete stone—like they taught you sometimes at school…how if a bear or any other volatile animal approached you, you shouldn't run; you shouldn't move until it did…stay absolutely still and it might pass you by…walk away…leave you alive rather than charging for the kill. Maybe it would work on humans—maybe it would work on bastards like Seishiro. Maybe.

Well. It was a good try.

He felt Seishiro kneel behind him—one of the Maestro's hands moving up and down the path of his spine. Subaru expected him to just go straight down and start fingering all over again—for the whole ordeal to start. It wouldn't have been the first time during these series of recent trysts—that Seishiro did a double, triple, quadruple whammy every so often. It was yet another of the vindictive pleasures the conductor probably had.

Although, Subaru most certainly hadn't expected the back of Seishiro's hand to move up past his shoulders and stroke his cheek—stroke away the saltwater tracks, stroke away the damp hair, stroke away the perspiration. Stroke away the pain.

He heard a faint flushing sound, and the clang of the toilet cover closing against the seat. Seishiro moved around and about the bathroom, turning on the faucet, wetting towels, bringing out dry ones, turning on the bathtub…kissing Subaru on the forehead. Subaru closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch. He just wanted to feel.

He didn't want to think about what this development could mean. He simply felt Seishiro lifting him into the warm water in the large, round bathtub. He didn't want to think about the fact that Seishiro might be bipolar. He simply felt Seishiro's long fingers bringing his hair down into the water, washing out the sweat and scent. He didn't want to think about how it would be so much easier of all Seishiro dealt out was pain—no occasional kindnesses. He simply felt the soap being lathered all over his body, and the shampoo in his hair. He didn't want to think about how no matter how painful the pain was, the gentleness was always so intensely acute that it completely eradicated the pain. He simply felt Seishiro's lips on his.

And he'd never dare let his mind drift anywhere close to the fact that pain, kindness, gentleness, sadness, anger…whatever he might feel toward Seishiro, and however the bastard might confuse him and whatever the Maestro might do to him…Subaru would never stop loving him. He wasn't able to.

* * *

Ashura's fingers tapped on the armrest of the settee he was cornered in. His free hand covered his mouth, and there was a crease between his eyebrows. He was thinking. Deeply. The café was almost completely emptied out of students from the nearby elitist colleges. A ridiculously modern glass clock behind the register displayed the witching hour. An hour where the young socialites of nearby campuses were either sleeping or clubbing or…well…you know.

He was meeting someone. Someone that Amaterasu had recommended. Someone that he'd soon looked up himself afterward, and had been so pleased at the results, that he'd smiled right out loud. She was a senior—a Sacred like himself, but she was a singer. Always going for concerts, and music video shoots, and interviews…a real opposite to the high profile—but highly secretive—professions that most socialites chose. He'd heard of her. But he'd never before actually seen her.

He would tonight, though.

Once the last remaining customer left, and Ashura was officially the only one in the store aside from the clerks, the door swung open and a slight, willowy figure walked through. She stood directly in front of Ashura, and smiled in the dim lighting. She dressed like a singer should. And she looked like a singer should. Modernly, traditionally, and wholesomely beautiful.

Her hair was the first thing that you noticed—long and curly. Not full curls, like you'd find caused by an iron curler—but stringy half curls…natural, lustrous curls. Her bangs even curled to her eyes—her syrupy golden eyes. A color that Ashura had come across before when he'd met Fuuma Sakurazuka for the trip to Bali. After all, this girl was Fuuma's cousin. The Maestro's cousin. So of course she was famous.

If Karen Kasumi was considered a socialite queen bee, then Kotori Monou was a socialite duchess. She was royalty by just being related to the Maestro through blood. And the good looks hadn't stopped at Fuuma—they spanned to even further recesses of the family. Where Fuuma and Seishiro were the peak of masculine form, Kotori was feminine delicacy incarnate. She wasn't petite, but she wasn't statuesque either.

Whatever she was, she was right in front of Ashura, and she held a manila folder in her hand. It was slightly soaked from the rain outside, and there were drops splattered across the orange paper and on her coat. "Thank you," Ashura said. "Is this all?"

Kotori raised her eyebrows and smiled again. "Nope. You're not taking this. This is just the barest hint of a clue. You can read it—but you're going to read it after you let me meet whoever it is you're about to go prying into. I won't let you ruin your life without knowing beforehand and how. Besides," her smile aired into a grin, "I haven't visited my baby cousin for a while."

"He's not a baby anymore. And you see him everyday, don't you?"

"I didn't mean Seishiro. He's the older brother," she explained lightly, "So I didn't quite get to coddle and spoil him as much. Fuuma…on the other hand…he's absolutely darling. And I heard he's got a darling of his own. I'd like to meet him. Anyone the bWitch thinks is good enough for her intern must be remarkable."

Ashura eyed the folder in her hand. He wanted to know what was in it. But at the same time…he feared knowing whatever there was to know. There was a reason why ignorance was bliss. But it was killing him from the inside out. He had to know. He had to know if he was supposed to comfort Yuui and Fai…or if he was supposed to strangle them.

An artist is passionate, if nothing else. And hate is just as passionate as love.

If not more.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry, it's been such a while, but I've been weighed down with thesis, Subaru's difficulty in being an angsty emo, and a sudden urge to go on a yaoi/shonen ai purge. Anyhoo, for those of you who're sorely missing Yuui, Fai, Watanuki, Doumeki, Touya, Yukito, Kurogane (and maybe even Mioru), they'll be back soon. And as for the whole hyperventilation bit, I myself have never hyperventilated before, but a best friend of mine has--many times, and I'm usually the cause of it with my perverted antics--so she filled me in. She, herself, hasn't thrown up after hyperventilating in a while--neither has she cried. But I thought Subaru's situation was fitting. And Seishiro's psychoticness is explained later on. Ashura gets psychotic later on. But then again, they're CLAMP's psychos, so that's all right. _

_Oh, and tomorrow morning, guess what joy I have? I have the joy and pleasure of waking up at seven in the morning on a Saturday so I can take a test that'll enable me (if I pass) to get into AP English. Whoo hoo. _


	5. Never Always

Chapter Four: Never Always

"I need to practice."

"So? I do, too. But I'm here."

"Which you shouldn't be."

"But I am."

"Really…Touya."

"I like it so much better when you _don't_ talk, y'know?"

"I'd like it so much better if you gave me a chance to practice. You're on a team. If I screw up my partner's going to fall flat on her face. Or worse. Plus, I could fall flat on my face. Or worse."

"If you fell on your ass, I could kiss it better."

"I'd rather be carted off to the ER."

Touya sighed waspishly and pulled back, lying flat on his back, arms pillowing his head against the hard, wooden floor of the Kuriakiri dance studio. Yukito leaned back, his legs still straddling the athlete. "We never get to do it." Touya brought one of his hands around to brush against Yukito's crotch the way any self-respecting person would pet a puppy.

"We're in college now."

"And you'd think we'd do it more often."

Yukito raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Touya's scowl. He bent low and touched his lips briefly over the soccer player's. "Wrong. College means more work and less play. At least for me. The older a dancer gets, the harder he or she has to work. For you…you're just reaching the peak of your performance. I reached it about two years ago."

And for some reason that Yukito couldn't quite fathom, that explanation made Touya grin. The athlete reached up beneath the dancer's shirt and into the dancer's pants and brushed his fingers everywhere—_everywhere_. Yukito lazed his eyes and gripped Touya's thick wrist tightly with his hand. Touya just grinned wider and pushed himself up on one arm—kidnapping the dancer's lips.

Yukito pulled away after only one round of tongue. His glasses fell to the floor with a clatter. He couldn't see Touya's expression, but from the athlete's next words, he could hazard an educated guess in what it'd look like. "I don't know," Touya said slowly. "It feels to me that you're still at the peak of your physical performance, too."

"What—"

"See?" Touya held up his hand and wagged the sticky fingers right before Yukito's eyes. "But you know, even the best have to stay fit with lots, and lots, and _lots_ of exercise. How about it?"

It's good to be king, isn't it, T?

* * *

Mioru smacked Kurogane's shoulder lightly and held up yet another file. "So hurry up and pick. Do you think I should get into Akamizu or Kuriakiri?" He proffered the file, waiting for Kurogane to take it. The ladyfinger protruding from Kurogane's lips switched from right to left, and the martial artist regarded the manila folder with his eyes, looking completely bored and reluctant.

Kurogane tossed the file to the floors—the papers flying out—and grabbed the back of Mioru's head, forcing his lips open and slipping the edge of the ladyfinger into the soccer captain's mouth. The martial artist broke off his half and left the remaining half inside the junior's mouth. "It's a good ladyfinger," Kurogane remarked indifferently. "Where'd you get them?"

Mioru was breathing rather hard. "France."

"Cool." Kurogane bent and picked up the fallen papers. "Why do you have to go to any of these? We've already spent our fucking childhood in these fucked-up schools. Why not go to a normal college? That's what I'm fucking doing as soon as I effing graduate. I'm grabbing that diploma, and I'm going to sure as hell run for it." He glanced over. "And if you don't come, I'll tie you up and strap you to the hood of my car."

Mioru raised an eyebrow. He grinned. "Doesn't sound so bad. Or maybe you just want to tie me up for the heck of it. Seems pretty fun to me." He threaded his fingers through one of Kurogane's hands. "And I feel like having some more ladyfingers."

Kurogane shrugged, taking out his cell phone and leaning back against the headboard. He unbuttoned and unzipped his uniform pants. "Go ahead. I don't need to be home until dinner, and that's not for another…what? Three…four hours? Oh, and Aoi?"

Mioru rested his head against Kurogane's thigh and looked up with a coquettish smile. "Yeah?"

"Make it good."

"Aren't I always?"

It was true, though. Kurogane knew Mioru was good—in more ways than that. When Mioru had returned from Bali, fresh light in his eyes and a snap in his voice when he'd shouted at Kurogane and hit him, and they'd tangled it out until they could do no more than fall into bed with each other for a sexless, sleepless, dreamless night…Kurogane had known that he'd forgiven Mioru.

Because no matter how infuriating Mioru was to him, and no matter how he himself infuriated Mioru, Kurogane knew that they couldn't break up—they could never be apart for long. It was impossible. Being apart hurt, and breaking up for good…that was the kind of hurt that would never fade. It was just too scary to think about how much it would hurt.

But Kurogane didn't want Mioru to go to one of those colleges—one of _those_ colleges. He thought Mioru was like him—one of the rare few who were born into their world that absolutely hated it. That hated the unspoken codes—that lived to rebel them until the very end. That didn't give a flying fuck about what people thought of them. Nothing at all.

Kurogane himself knew where he was going to college—somewhere far, far away where socialites were nothing but a mere dream, and everyone was normal, with normal bank accounts, normal cars, normal sex lives, normal clubs, and just…normal. Or if not normal, at least not completely batshit insane.

He needed to get away from it—and he would. Even if his parents hadn't given him the okay—as they'd done two years ago, when he'd put up a temper tantrum about having the last straw—he still would've found someway, somehow, to wash himself completely of every last bit of hereditary socialite-ness in his body. There had to be someone out there in the world who was crazy enough to want this fucked-up life that didn't have it—all he had to do was find that insane person and convince him/her to trade places.

As Mioru came up, licking his lips to erase all traces of Kurogane's fluids and pressed them beneath Kurogane's jaw line, Kurogane closed his eyes and gripped Mioru's thick black hair beneath his fingers. Even if the soccer player was a year older, Kurogane's hand was almost big enough to cup Mioru's entire face. Kurogane knew he should go to hell for feeling this way, but he knew deep down—as much as he knew it was wrong—that if he had the chance to somehow truly rid himself of the socialite life, he would do so. Even if he had to get rid of Mioru as well.

* * *

Doumeki drummed his fingers against the table and licked his lips. It was only the second week of school, but one of the teachers had already gotten "sick", and there was a substitute today. Although, if Doumeki had to choose, he liked this class far too much. Not that he particularly had a liking to literature—the books were way too long, and the print was far too small—but he liked where he was seated. Very. Very. Much.

For he sat directly behind Watanuki, and as the desks were connected to each other by the front of each desk, and the back of each chair, Watanuki couldn't scoot away from him. Which was all very well and good as it gave Doumeki a perfect view of the goalie's nape. And sometimes, if Doumeki was lucky enough and Watanuki was engrossed enough in the lesson to lean forward, the forward could also have a decent glance down to Watanuki's…er…well, either way, Doumeki was thankful that the goalie never wore a belt.

But today, Doumeki had a certain bone to pick with Watanuki. And no, it wasn't _that_ bone. Really, did Doumeki seem like the kind of person who would do such a thing at a center of learning and education? Well, yes, probably so, but that wasn't the point. The point was, that although Doumeki already knew that Watanuki was a master in the art of denial, Doumeki never had thought that the goalie could take matters this far.

Apparently, he'd been wrong.

For the short time that the school year had been on, Watanuki had already managed to lie about the fact that he was 1) bi, and that he 2) had kissed Doumeki, and it didn't stop there, kids; the goalie had also managed to lie about how 3) they'd had sex over summer vacation and were definitely together. Or at least, Doumeki thought those three on the checklist qualified as them being together. Or maybe he was drastically wrong. And maybe he was deluding himself.

Or maybe Watanuki needed a good sharp thwack upside the head.

Yeah. Doumeki thought so, too.

"Come over after practice," Doumeki whispered, his breath blowing against the back shell of Watanuki's ear. He felt the goalie jerk away instinctively, and his head turned back slightly.

Watanuki kept his eyes ahead. "Fine. I can't stay anymore than past eight, okay? My parents have this thing, and I have to study for the SATs. They're killing me."

"Three hours?" Doumeki muttered. "That's shit."

"That's life. Now take it or leave it?"

"Take it. We'll just have to do oral, then. If I don't come at least five times, then you owe me on Saturday. And no more crap about how you have the stupid SATs cram session or whatever." Doumeki's hand inched up between Watanuki's shoulder blades, fingers pressing against the flesh.

Watanuki's eyes slid toward him irritably. "Shut up. I'm going to murder you during practice today."

"You missed my shot."

"You caught me off guard," the goalie replied indignantly. "And that was the day I was still breaking in my new gloves. Those things hurt like a bitch the first few weeks, you know?"

Doumeki gave the snort that he knew would set Watanuki off into a tempest of flying rage, which meant the goalie would have to struggle to keep his incoming tantrum from potentially landing him in detention for the next three months, thus possibly impeding chances to murder/fuck Doumeki. "Anyway. Which ones are you applying for anyway?"

"All three. I'll just see who'll take me." Doumeki saw Watanuki's shoulders go up and down in a shrug. "I'm not a legacy or a Fluorite"—Doumeki could just hear the smile on the goalie's face—"so there's no definite answer as to where I'll be accepted. But I'm hoping Sabakurein."

Doumeki's mouth opened but nothing came out. The sub went out of the room, and the class began to turn in their seats to talk. Watanuki was one of them. He rested his elbow against Doumeki's desk and the forward had been right—Watanuki was smiling significantly. "I was hoping that I'd get onto their team with my acceptance. What do you think?"

Doumeki straightened his face stonily and said, "Great." He hoped to heaven above that Watanuki couldn't hear his heart doing the conga.

* * *

Yuui smiled. He couldn't exactly say he was surprised. After all, it was Kamui. Aside from the Maestro, Kamui possessed direct ties with Yuuko Ichihara. So when the writer had dragged the musician right out of school all the way to Yuuko's office to find out what Yuuko had for him that was of such utter importance that it couldn't wait any more than a single second, only to find out that Yuuko was waving a letter of early acceptance from Akamizu in her left hand, with Kamui's name on the envelope—

Yuui just wasn't surprised. He was pleased, but he could more or less say that he'd expected it, and it was just another pleasant event that interrupted the chain of disastrous ones. Kamui was certainly ecstatic. Although, the writer's bliss wouldn't last much longer, as the ones who received early acceptance, were also available for being assigned early tasks. And even though it did give more time for completion, it was more nerve-wracking as no one else of their year had received them yet.

Yuuko's office consisted of an entire building—covered with a layer of fine glass that was tinted darker than the night sky. Her actual workplace, however, was on the completely random tenth story, right in the center of the floor. It was as normal as any editor-in-chief's office was, with a desk and a laptop and various articles framed on the walls. But the atmosphere—the air—was completely foreboding, and made Yuui quite ill just by standing inside.

Kamui seemed to be at least used to it, if not comfortable.

"I haven't seen much of Little Boy Blue, lately," Yuuko commented, passing tiny shots of scotch out to Yuui and Kamui. She leaned back on her desk, and Yuui's eyes zoomed in on how the action pushed up the perfect protruding curve. His tongue skimmed the top of the alcohol.

"That makes two of us," Yuui said smoothly. His eyes flirted over Yuuko's lips and down her throat—down, down, down _low_ past her throat. He licked his lips free from the residue of the scotch and smiled.

"Three," Kamui added quietly. They looked at him. "He's barely been home, and whenever he is, he always goes straight to his room. We're just lucky he at least comes out for meals and school."

Yuuko fingered a lock of her hair and blew her bangs playfully from her face. She turned to look out the window, looking down at the sidewalks, one flawlessly manicured hand parting the blinds for her to peer through. She faced her head slightly to one side and her eyes slid to the boys. "So he's been driving by himself to and fro school?"

Kamui looked away. "Yeah." Yuui narrowed his eyes when they met the writer's, but Kamui simply stared level with the desk, refusing to connect gazes long enough for Yuui to be able to strain anything from his friend's mind at all. It was a simple and obvious tactic, but an affective one nonetheless.

Yuuko raised her eyes and nodded her head in a way that clearly said, "Well there you have it." She looked at her Philip Stein Teslar watch and then glanced at the boys. "It looks like you two have to go. I've got an appointment with my photo editor in twenty minutes, and an appointment with…an old friend after that." As the boys commenced to exit her office, she called out, "Oh, and Kamui, darling?"

He stopped, and turned, his eyes expectant.

"Congratulations."

* * *

Yuui shut his eyes. He shut his eyes and muffled his face in his pillow, wishing that he'd suffocate, but knowing that that would be the most selfish and ridiculous request he had and could ever make. Why should he want death? Why should he want to escape life? What had he ever gotten that was so bad? Asthma? Done and over with now that he was older. That was all.

And now, he was upset, frightened and terrified and guilty and just…guh…all because he could hear every sigh and breath and gasp and scream that came from his brother and Kyle's mouths. They were right next door, and he didn't want to even imagine what could be happening. Something seemed to have upset Kyle particularly today, and as usual, he was taking it out on Fai. Or maybe he just felt like being particularly sadistically cruel.

Whatever the reason, Yuui couldn't bear hearing the proof. It was so easy to just come in after it actually happened. That way, the actuality—the reality—he'd never have to face it. It would never have to exist to him. All he knew was the post-ordeal. He never wanted to have to deal with the fact that there was indeed an actual main show.

It was bad enough as it is.

Yuui fisted the pillow, his body shaking. Why? Why was he like this? The few times when he came home early enough to hear…this was why Yuui made sure he was always screwing someone, partying, clubbing, drinking…so that he was exhausted and intoxicated when he came home, and therefore, all he'd have to do was clean Fai up and forget the reason why he needed to do so. He didn't want to remember, to deal with it. Even if that made him as evil and responsible as Kyle, Yuui didn't want to go through this _with_ Fai. He didn't want to stand behind Fai and watch, because watching was so much worse.

And yes. Yuui was fully aware of how much a bastard he was.

He clenched his eyes so tight that it hurt when his brother's voice peaked. Yuui didn't realize how his nails were imprinting into his palm until after the silence reestablished itself, and Kyle's footsteps echoed up the stairs and away to shut himself in his study. He knew that now was when he should make his way to the scene of the crime and start the routine of putting the pieces back together…but he couldn't. This time…for one reason or another…it just seemed so much worse. He just…_couldn't_ face Fai. He couldn't. This officially made him the worst brother of all—so horrible that he wasn't even worthy of being called a brother. That would be an insult to all brothers—brothers who truly did care about their siblings. Brothers like Kamui and Subaru. Like Fuuma and Seishiro.

"Hey."

Yuui jumped onto his feet automatically, and one hand went to his hair. Fai was standing in the doorway, albeit leaning heavily to the side with one hand on the siding, but he looked more or less unharmed except for the few cuts that were bleeding anew on his shoulder and the bruises on his stomach. Yuui could tell that underneath the sweatpants, Fai wasn't wearing any underwear—it was an achievement that he could get anything onto his lower body on at all. "Sorry," Yuui whispered, looking at his brother's face—it took everything he had not to avoid Fai's gaze.

Fai smiled superficially. "It's fine. Today was pretty smooth-sailing. He did it on a bed. I can walk." He padded forward a few steps across the room, and then collapsed onto his bed. "Could you get me a shirt?"

Yuui sat behind his brother, bringing one hand down between Fai's shoulder blades. "Sure. Let me clean this up first." It was always this way. There would be no speaking, no talking, no discussion about what had just happened. Yuui would glue the shatters back together, and Fai would brush the glossy paint over the cracks. This was how they worked. This was how they'd always work until they were freed. The time was so close—college. But even then…what if…what if they were never really free? What if they never could be? What would happen then?

But they couldn't think about it. Thinking about it would be too painful. There was pain enough where they stood. Any more would be unbearable—impossible to handle. They already had figured out that the scars on Fai—both physical and mental—would never evaporate. Would the scars on their brotherhood always remain, too?

* * *

_A/N: SPRING BREAK!!! For me, I mean. It starts today, and yesterday we had a half day. So even though I can still wear jeans and a sweatshirt and still feel cold, it's officially spring in my eyes. Because when we get back to school we can wear or spring uniforms, if we don't freeze our butts off. Anyway, nothing really happens in this chapter, except that I try to make sure that Fai, Yuui, Kurogane, Mioru, Touya, Yukito, Watanuki, and Doumeki are still alive. Really, the main characters/storylines in Compelled only involve Fai/Ashura/Yuui, and Kamui/Fuuma/Subaru/Seishiro. Touya and Yukito will have a small important part later on. And I use Fuuka/Sakura/Syaoran for the climax, even though the rest of the story has nothing to do with them, mostly. And then I use Kurogane/Mioru for the epilogue. Well....it's a mess right now, but it'll work out. Though, right now, I'm deciding if I should cut out one part that leads up to the climax...anyhoo._

_Oh, and you'll be glad to hear that I've officially decided to do a sequel to Secrets. The plot's already coming along, but (don't laugh)....i don't have a title. Yet. _


	6. College

_"There's plenty of upside to being the spawn of the fabulously wealthy. But the downside? Super successful parents expect nothing less from their offspring. And when it comes to college that means the Ivies. It's more than just getting into college. It's setting a course for the rest of your life. And for those of you who aren't legacies, the pressures are no less. When parents have sacrificed for their children's futures, what kid would want to let them down?"_

_--Gossip Girl from "Poison Ivy"_

* * *

Chapter Five: College

Dear Mr. Yuui Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Akamizu University. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's brunch.

Dear Mr. Yuui Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Sabakurein College. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Saturday's luncheon.

Dear Mr. Yuui Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Kuriakiri Academy. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's dinner.

Dear Mr. Fai Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Akamizu University. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's dinner.

Dear Mr. Fai Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Sabakurein College. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Saturday's luncheon.

Dear Mr. Fai Fluorite,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Kuriakiri Academy. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's dinner.

Dear Mr. Kamui Sumeragi,

I am pleased to congratulate you on the honor of being given early acceptance into Akamizu University. This prestigious and rare honor is given only to those candidates we deem worthy—and are sure of at first glance—to come to our college. Out of our entire long and withstanding history, there have only ever been eighty-two students who have been able to accept early. Your recommendations test scores, and pieces of literature were by far the best of this year's crop. Miss Yuuko Ichihara, one of our leading benefactresses, had in fact insisted that your competence surpasses all those aspiring writers of this generation. And so, we extend the warmest and most welcoming invitation to our Sunday brunch this weekend; and we hope that you choose us as the treasured foundation of your knowledge.

Dear Mr. Subaru Sumeragi,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Akamizu University. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's brunch.

Dear Mr. Subaru Sumeragi,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Sabakurein College. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Saturday's luncheon.

Dear Mr. Subaru Sumeragi,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Kuriakiri Academy. After reviewing your test scores on the Standardized Aptitude Test, along with your audition for our orchestra and ensemble units, and discussing with my fellow colleagues, I believe it is we who are honored to be able to have you as a future candidate of our college, and to have the opportunity to assist you in carving your career path for your adult life. Our college invites and welcomes you to visit us this upcoming weekend to tour our campus and spend some time with our students at Sunday's dinner.

* * *

_Truly, a socialite isn't a socialite until he or she have experienced the unforgettable weekend that is the College Visit. There are no words to describe how this one weekend will change a socialite's life, and what it can possibly do to how they look at life. Whether you're a legacy or a scholarship student, or just a traditional socialite, the College Visit will change you in one way or another._

_There is no way to prepare. There is no warning. You just get into the Town car of whichever college student has come to escort you to whichever college you're going to visit, and then you're let loose into the mystical, dangerous, volatile world that is college._

_As for our four applicants, you can obviously guess the only college they're going to visit. Oh, and in case you're wondering why deary K only received on letter, it's because once moi puts her lovely hand into these affairs, there's no point in the other colleges even trying. But, I bet you already knew that, right?_

_Anyway._

_I don't know if it's just me, but I think that this year the College Visit is going to be a little bit more…compelling than the last. This year, two Fluorites and two Sumeragi are coming to Akamizu all in one weekend. Not to mention that A and the Maestro will have their hands all over this. Oh, and did I also mention that the Duchesse wants to meet her baby cousin's, Captain F's, new darling?_


	7. Visit

Chapter Six: Visit

Kamui glanced at the stunningly gorgeous girl beside him and wondered when on earth had his luck skyrocketed to such a point that not only had he been accepted early into Akamizu, but his escort to the College Visit for the weekend was Kotori Monou, who was not only the Duchess, but she was the Maestro's cousin. In other words, she was also Fuuma's cousin, which meant that Kamui should probably not make himself to be an idiot in front of her.

Although, Kamui wished his mind could've been enjoying itself in the company of this amazingly pretty senior, rather than worrying itself worn with thoughts of the fact that Subaru's escort was none other than the bastard Maestro himself. At the least, Fai and Yuui were safe, as they'd managed to have Ashura as their escort.

"And these are the extra rooms where you and the other senior applicants will be staying for the weekend," Kotori finished cheerily, wrapping up the tour of the east dorms during which Kamui had totally zoned out. He jerked and blinked at her expectantly.

"Sorry?" Kamui internally cringed.

Kotori smiled. "There aren't any showers in these rooms, since they're only used for these visits, so you'll have to use the ones down that hall," she pointed, "Or up that corner. I suggest that you use the ones up the corner, as you're less likely to get molested."

Kamui opened his mouth voicelessly. She laughed. "I'm just saying. Besides, I'm not worried about happens if you do. I just don't want my baby cousin to come barreling through the doors of Akamizu to kill the sorry perpetrator that makes the devastating mistake of touching you."

He faced the door that she'd given him the key to. "Fuuma? He wouldn't. He's not the kind that gets jealous. His head is too swollen to be able to comprehend that much." Kamui fitted the key into the hole and turned it.

Kotori crossed her arms and smiled. "Who knows? When it comes to you, all bets are off for him, you know? I saw him looking at you when you were getting into the car. As much as a writer like you—I know—thinks things like these are ridiculous…he really looks at you like—"

"Please don't say it," Kamui said quietly. He looked at her steadily, one hand remaining on the doorknob, the other hand wrapped so tightly around the handle of his leather backpack that the knuckles had whitened over the bone. Kotori's eyebrows flew up into her chestnut bangs. She nodded her head once, smiled, and stepped back.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." The writer closed his eyes and shut the door behind him.

It wasn't that he didn't…that he hated it when people commented on how Fuuma looked at him. He just didn't want to be constantly reminded of it. Honestly…it still frightened the hell out of him. He didn't want to think about the level of…commitment that that look implied. After all, the more attached, the more you loved, the more you knew someone…the more it would hurt when it came apart at the seams.

* * *

Fai stood, staring at the small face mirror that lay on Ashura's desk. He supposed it was for self-portraits or something of the like. An artist's room was a one of a kind thing. It was a special experience to be let alone in such a quirky environment—every artist kept their room a different way. No two were alike. Even though he was supposed to be with Yuui in one of the guest rooms, he'd managed to convince his brother that he'd sleep with Ashura.

Ashura's walls were covered with tacked up drawings, unfinished scraps, half-shaded sketches, completed and uncompleted paintings here and there…there were even a few practice photographs scattered around. Fai recognized the sketches that involved himself—traced the lines…the planes…the angles. Somehow, Ashura made him beautiful on the paper. But Ashura had never seen any of Fai's body past his arms and neck. In any of the drawings where the paper-Fai was unclothed, it was what Ashura could guess of Fai's body.

He sat on the wide bed, looking through the pile of sketchpads that were thrown loosely together on the side table. His fingers brushed carefully down the sharp edges of the torn, and crumpled paper. Amidst all the white and black in the room, there was a small orange corner that stuck out from the bottom of the compilation. Fai's eyes narrowed. Growing up with Kyle, he and Yuui had never really been taught about privacy and respecting others' rights to it. If they wanted it, then they should take it. That was all they knew.

The violinist carefully held the corner between his fingers and tugged softly, slipping the manila folder out slowly and slickly enough so that the rest of the pile wouldn't capsize. His heart thudded forward when he saw that right across the front of the folder, in huge bold sharpie marker, was his name. He inhaled and exhaled shakily, and hastily opened the metal clamps, slipping off the envelope cover. His hand reached hurriedly in and grabbed the sheaves of paper within.

Fai only had to glance at them, before dropping them to the floor the same way you'd drop a fresh cut flower that you'd just realized still had a bee perched upon it.

"Pretty complete, isn't it?"

Fai didn't turn around. He stayed exactly as he was. "Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?"

"What do you and your brother take me for? Truthfully, Fai?" Ashura sounded absolutely deadly. He sounded like nothing Fai ever remembered hearing him sound like. He sounded like…like a _Sacred_. Like a Sacred that had been crossed and vexed and lied to one too many times.

Fai kept staring at the wall, at the table, at anything besides Ashura. He didn't dare turn and look at the expression on the artist's face. "I…what do you think I am? The file…do you…get it?" It just proved how much he and his brother had trained himself if he could still carry on this conversation with the airy, nonchalantly cheery voice the way he was doing so.

"I thought I did." He felt Ashura take a step forward; he heard the door snap shut, and the lock clicked into place. "I just need a few things clarified. If you didn't want me—if you didn't want to have sex with me, why couldn't you have just told me in the first place? Rather than fucking around on me with the doctor—who's, I don't know, old enough to be your father?"

In one fluid move, one slippery smooth slight of hand, Ashura had pinned Fai to the wooden floor, the artist's entire body weight on the musician. This was the reason Fai hadn't wanted to see Ashura's face. He knew what that the artist would have that smile on his face. The smile that should be copyrighted. The disappointed smile. The furious smile. The crushed smile. The "I love you so much, I'm sorry you didn't love me" smile.

The artist's hands were suffocating Fai's wrists—nailing them into the floor. Fai could feel the bones being pressed against the hard surface; he could feel the bruises forming. He could feel the wounds that Kyle had ripped anew on his back being cut open all over again—they hadn't had even twenty-four hours to attempt to heal. He could feel the wounds in his heart that hadn't even had a decade to heal being ripped afresh as well.

"It must run in the family," Ashura smiled. "Yuui, I knew. But I thought you were different. You two always prove everyone wrong, you know that? Everyone. Especially me. You're a _whore_."

* * *

Yuui ran a hand through his hair. He threw his pack of clothes onto his bed and sat down heavily. He should be more excited about this weekend, shouldn't he? After all, this would be his new home in a matter of mere months. And at the moment, all he could think about were Fai and Ashura. About that one night last spring break…that one time Ashura had slept with him; even if it had only been so Ashura could submit the sex tape in turn for being a Sacred…that one night still meant everything to Yuui.

Pathetic as that made him, he didn't care. But he couldn't help wondering how Ashura held Fai. Maybe even if Fai didn't say a word about it to Yuui…maybe Fai was just lying to him and he really had already done it with Ashura. Yuui wouldn't hold it against his brother if that was true—after all, what Yuui had done was far worse. Fai didn't have to tell Yuui anything. He ran his finger down the cloth of the clothes he'd wear for the brunch tomorrow. Tonight, they'd most likely be invited to one club or another. He'd brought clothes for that, too. His head turned, and he smiled. "Knock, much?"

Kamui collapsed onto the bed and rolled his head into Yuui's lap. "You know I don't knock. Besides, why do people knock anyway?"

"I don't know. In case the person's changing or naked. Or having sex."

"Well, it isn't like I haven't already walked in on you doing any of those three. So what's the harm, right?" Kamui widened his eyes indicatively at Yuui. The musician laughed, leaning back, one hand resting against the writer's throat. "Any plans on how to lock Subaru away from Seishiro? How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing my brother is sleeping in the same bed as the bastard Maestro?"

Yuui sighed. Really. He knew that Seishiro wasn't the…kindest person around, but he wasn't completely soulless. The Maestro cared about Subaru enough not to bash his head in with a baseball bat, at the least. And in the pianist's opinion, that was all that should be expected of someone like Seishiro. "Nothing's happened so far, and nothing _will_ happen." Yuui pulled his fingers through Kamui's hair absentmindedly. "This is the worst way to spend a weekend, you know that? Real college visits are about going to keggers and frat parties, and getting so high and drunk that you don't even realize you've lost your virginity ten times over in one night."

Kamui wrinkled his nose. "And why? Anyway, we can't do that. We don't have our V-plates anymore, so it doesn't even work. If you really want to go to a kegger that badly, I'm sure the Maestro knows of one or two that're happening this weekend. Go ask him."

"Hm. Maybe I will." Yuui blew out his breath, and looked around the room. "Should we go get Fai and Subaru? I don't know, walk around campus or something. I need to get chatted up. Soon."

The writer sat up. "Wow. What did monogamy ever do to _you_?"

"It rejected me and then spat me out into a garbage can, before sending me to the incinerator, and then dumped my ashes in a wasteland filled with toxic shit from a neighboring laboratory." Yuui smiled.

"Well then." Kamui tousled his hair and looked to the ceiling. "At least you have an excuse. I've got none—it's done nothing to me so far. I'm just the one screwing it around. It's not so bad, though. Not…so bad." He glanced to Yuui. "Is Fai…?" He raised his eyebrows indicatively, one hand motioning.

"No." Yuui looked into his lap. "There's no point in even asking that question anymore. The answer will always be no. Always. It'll never change no matter what I do. No matter how hard he tries. No matter how fucking amazing Ashura or anyone is. Fai will never change, and we'll always be compelled to sneak around—compelled to keep a secret from anyone we meet. Always, always, always," Yuui laughed, and gazed at Kamui.

The writer clasped his hands together, drumming his fingers against the knuckles. He glanced up at the ceiling, and then straight ahead, before settling his sight on Yuui. Kamui was one of the rare few people who could gaze at Yuui like that, and the musician would still be perfectly comfortable. It was a writer's gaze—a gaze that neither calculated, nor planned, nor appraised, nor anything. It was just a gaze that watched. Observed. Looking just to look. There was no black purpose underneath. It wasn't innocent. It wasn't guilty. It was just the clearest, most direct gaze—completely plain in sight. Plain was good. Plain was easy. "Let's go then," Kamui said finally.

Yuui's fist whitened around the doorknob. He pressed his ear against the door, and his eyes widened. Stay calm. Don't make presumptions. Stay calm. Don't assume. Calm. Deep breaths. It wasn't always what you thought. He turned around. Kamui raised his eyebrows, "Well? Are you going to knock—"

"C'mere," Yuui said quietly. "Put your ear up to the door and tell me what you hear. Fast, now."

Kamui frowned, but he complied. His hands rested lightly against the wood, and his expression was even when he first placed his ear upon the door. Yuui watched the progression of the writer's thoughts play out on his face. First confusion, then realization…and then horror. "Is he…? Fai's…?" Kamui's breathing shortened. "Go get Seishiro. He's up a wing from our dorms."

"He's _my_ brother. How come you—"

"Shut up and go," Kamui snarled. He had his own reasons, and he had half a mind that thought Yuui probably knew, too, and instead was choosing to be a ridiculous prick about it just because that was the Yuui Fluorite thing to do. "The more you talk…just…it's _because_ he's your brother."

The musician had pivoted and began to run down the hall before Kamui could assess the damage he'd just done. He took his pen out of his back pocket and unscrewed it, sliding out just the ink reservoir into the palm of his hand. He tucked the ink away back into his back pocket and then redid the now-empty pen capsule. Kamui placed the point up against the tiny hole in the doorknob's center and he tapped the side of the pen roughly a few times. Closing his eyes, he clicked the pen.

When he thought it safe to reopen his line of sight, there were a few smoke clouds billowing from the pen. He breathed out in a relief. It was his first time using it, and he never really thought it wise to completely trust anything Yuuko gave him—aside from drugs—even if he _was_ her intern. But this just happened to be one gadget that seemed more or less harmless—well, not to the lock, but to him. He tossed the pen capsule in a nearby corner, and tried opening the door. It was unlocked.

Kamui stopped short as soon as he opened the door wide enough to step into the room. The first words that came out of his mouth weren't at all intentional—they merely fell out. "What have you _done_?" It wasn't in a cynical way—or even a sadistically satisfied way. He was just…horrified. Horrified that anyone could do this to a person they were supposed to _love_. It happened in his stories. It was never supposed to happen in real life. Not his life. Maybe to children living in dangerous third world countries. Maybe centuries ago on slave ships. Maybe with psychos like Kyle. But never anywhere where it could affect Kamui himself. It terrified him.

Fai was sprawled on his stomach on the floor near the bed. Naked, and lifeless. Kamui's eyes couldn't help but attach themselves to the fluids that were leaking out of Fai. Not even a condom. Not even. Ashura sat, with one knee propped up, completely clothed and calmly smoking a joint. His dark hair fell perfectly as ever against the sides of his face and onto his shoulders.

Kamui couldn't breathe. "You…love him," he choked out in a whisper. "You love Fai, don't you? Why would you…he's your…if you love him, then…why…" It felt like someone was squeezing his head—tightly enough to make it fold in on itself…like it was almost possible for it to burst completely. He looked, waiting for Ashura to speak.

Ashura met the writer's gaze. Dangerous. Kamui knew eyes like that anywhere. They were _dangerous_. Dangerous didn't mean evil—Kamui knew that. He acknowledged that. He'd learned. Dangerous beings could love as tenderly as gentle beings. But when they hate…they hated like nothing and no one else could. Why else were they called dangerous? Too much pride. Too much envy. Too much awareness. Too much…paranoia.

"And if he was screwing me around?" Ashura said quietly. "I won't love someone who doesn't love me just as much. I want as much as I give. Nothing less and nothing more. If Fai screws me around…then…I'll give back as much as I get." Ashura nodded to the pale body. "That's nothing less than what he did to me."

_He doesn't know._ The thought ran errant—shouting through Kamui's mind frantically and desperately. _Please tell me he doesn't know. _Anyone that knew about Fai's past…anyone that knew and had a heart wouldn't have been able to do something like this…right? Ashura just didn't know. That was all. Right? It had to be. It just had to be. If it wasn't—

"Yuui—DON'T!"

Kamui's head flipped up. On the…why was he on the ground? Seishiro was…Seishiro was holding Yuui back? Yuui was struggling—struggling towards Ashura. The intent was clear. Yuui wanted Ashura _dead_. Yuui wanted to pummel Ashura into oblivion. Yuui wanted Ashura to go to hell and never fucking come back. Kamui could see it all so plainly. Right now, Yuui hated Ashura—a hate that was almost otherworldly.

"He doesn't know," Kamui said softly. No. He had to say it louder. "Yuui—"

"Shut UP!" Yuui screamed. Hysterical. His friend was hysterical. A little gasp went through Kamui's mouth when he realized exactly how far gone Yuui was. "Are you blind?!" The pianist turned his attention now to Ashura. "I don't see a condom anywhere you FUCKER. Did you even at least care if he got sick—if he got AIDS? Even the doctor BASTARD had the fucking balls to make his fucking CLIENTS use that much! I _hate_ you."

"Yuui," Seishiro said quietly—patiently. "Calm down. Stop. Look at Fai. Look at him." Yuui thrashed wildly—worse. He screamed. Kamui could hear him starting to cry. And Ashura didn't even flinch. That was how you could tell if someone was really dangerous. "Look at your brother, Yuui. Your twin. Look. At. Him."

Yuui stopped. Seishiro let go of him. It wasn't that…he stopped. It was…sort of…like he _died_. "I can't," Yuui whispered, shaking. His eyes were wide, and even then, he still smiled. A smile that scared the shit out of Kamui. "I can't. He'll…he's just going to smile at me…and say he's all right. When he's not. All my…I just…I _can't_."

"My brother's going to kill me."

Kamui looked up swiftly at Seishiro. The Maestro was looking down at him. Not at Yuui or Ashura or even Fai. But at Kamui. The conductor smiled apologetically. "You do know that you're shivering, right?" When Kamui could only blankly shake his head, Seishiro looked to Ashura. "We're going to have a talk. Yuui…you'll…take a nap. And Kamui," he sighed, "Take care of Fai. I'm going to trust you because you're a writer. Please let me believe that if anyone, you'll come out of this sane. And I've got _your_ brother holed up in my room. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

As much and as often as Kamui said he hated the Maestro, there was a reason he was the Maestro. And Kamui loved him for that much at least.

* * *

_A/N: Well....now you know why Ashura--ASHURA, of all people--was so good about the whole "no sex unless you want to" deal in Secrets when it came to Fai. Err....yeah. But, CLAMP loves their psychos. And so do I. 0_0 By the way, this is another PLOT!Point when it comes to Kamui and Fuuma's storyline. Also, sorry about the completely bogusly irrelevant chapter title, but I couldn't come up with anything else._


	8. Tightrope

Chapter Seven: Tightrope

Fai couldn't feel his face. He couldn't feel his fingers, or his limbs. He couldn't feel his body. He couldn't feel anything inside of him. He was just there. He couldn't feel, but he could sense. He could see Kamui making his way around the room, sponging Fai with wet towels, drying Fai, clothing Fai, stroking Fai's hair back. He could hear the writer asking him softly to raise his arms, move his legs…asking Fai to sit up, and so on. He could smell Kamui's scent as the writer kissed his lips and almost begged him to be all right.

But he couldn't _feel_ any of it.

He wasn't even sure what expression was on his face. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had a suspicion that it wasn't a smile, though. Which was bad. If he wore a smile, then Kamui wouldn't look at him like that, right? If he wore a smile, then maybe he wouldn't be numb, right? Maybe…maybe if he could smile…he could be able to forget.

But definitely, _definitely_, Fai didn't want to see his brother. After all, Yuui must not want to see him, either, right? Because the first thing, the very first thing that both of them could call their own…Fai had ruined that, too; the first person that loved them so perfectly…Fai had to taint him. Fai had to ruin it. And Ashura…Ashura was out of the equation entirely. Ashura was _gone_.

"Fai?"

He saw Kamui's child fingers reach up to his cheek. "Fai?" the writer repeated hesitantly—softly, almost a croon; in the same voice one would use to keep from frightening an animal. "Did you hear what I asked you?" For some reason, those words made Fai realize that whatever he felt, and whatever he couldn't feel…whatever everything, he was very much alive, and sitting on the edge of the bed.

And then the pain hit. The pain and the delayed reaction and the delayed remembrance and everything. Everything came rushing at Fai in an attempt to make up for his lack of emotion, his lack of feeling…his numbness. As if to suffice for its lateness, everything hit him with twice the force and twice the strength. Maybe more. Maybe ten times more.

He just heard Kamui shouting—panicking. He couldn't quite hear anything else. He could see, though. He saw the room starting to tilt to one side—everything going off kilter. Fai could finally feel—and the moment he did, he wished back to the indifferent numbness. What use was it to feel when all you felt was pain? Nausea? Guilt? Disgust?

He sensed Kamui rushing away, backing up from Fai, and the violinist simultaneously heard a splattering sound. An biting, sickening odor. More movement. His sight wasn't just tilting anymore. It was spinning—spinning into focus and then out, moving left and right, balancing and unbalancing. Everything was simply _wrong_. Everything was too loud—too much to see, too much to feel, too hard to breathe. Everything had to stop. Stop. Just stop.

* * *

Yuui held his face in his hands. No. This shouldn't be happening. It _couldn't_ be happening. He wasn't sitting in this chair, listening to Seishiro relay the entire story—_their_ entire story—to Ashura because he himself couldn't handle speaking. He wasn't an inch away from breaking down and crying and sobbing not only because the person he loved had just raped his brother, but because even now Yuui still loved him and that was just plain bullshit. You couldn't _love_ someone who did that. Perhaps hate for all eternity, spit at every time you saw them, come to accept their apology, or just shoot silver bullets at, yes—those were reasonable reactions. But love? Bull.

Moreover, if Ashura could do this to Fai—the person _he_ was supposed to love, how far would the artist go for someone he hated? What if…what could Ashura do to Yuui? At the thought, he looked up painstakingly to face Ashura, who was sitting in the chair only feet away. The artist seemed to sense eyes on him, and slid his own away from the Maestro's stand over him, and directed them at Yuui for the briefest moment. Seishiro was just finishing the story—it felt like eons.

The pianist nearly jumped in his seat when he read the expression in Ashura's eyes—the artist's facial expression was as fathomless as when they'd first found him in the dorm with Fai. But his eyes…so clear…the message they were throwing at Yuui was so painfully clear: _Kill me—I should die. _

He couldn't deny its accuracy—Ashura _should_ die for what he did. It didn't matter if he didn't know about Fai's past—no one should have to be forced through something like that. But Yuui couldn't be the one to kill him. No, even if Seishiro tried to kill Ashura, Yuui would do his damnedest to kill Seishiro before the opportunity arose. That was how insane Yuui was, and that was how much he deserved for Fai to kill him—him and Ashura both.

Still, even though the hate wouldn't come, the anger was there. Yes, definitely. The anger was so utterly real that Yuui could cut it in half and dice it up within him. It wasn't like flames, as most people would think such rage was. It was ice. Cold and blue. Maybe even like blue fire—the gas fire lit when one used a stove. He didn't want to kill Ashura, but he did want to cause the artist great physical, emotional and mental pain. Ashura wouldn't see hair nor hide of Fai for as long as the artist _lived_. Both parties would have to steamroll over Yuui to see the other. Yuui knew that his feelings might be interpreted as jealousy finally arising, but he knew better. It wasn't jealousy, it was _He hurt my brother so I'll demolish him how dare he even touch Fai how dare he hurt my brother he's MY brother no one ever does anything like that not after Kyle not after I don't even care he'll never see Fai again I swear to it I swear over my dead body because he hurt my brother he hurt him and I'll never forgive him. _

Whenever someone said—or thought—that forgiveness was beyond the realms of possibility, it was usually out of a fit of anger. That probably went for the same with Yuui. And he knew that. He knew that he would probably attempt to forgive Ashura, if Fai could do the like. But at the moment, his anger was fresh and roaring to be let loose. When he looked at Ashura, the anger only worsened. It intensified to such a point that not being able to hurt Ashura _right now_ actually hurt Yuui—frustrated him until it was painful. He _needed_ to kick Ashura. To _scream and rant and punch and bite and yank and cut and hit and whack and strangle and shriek and slam and bellow and yell and insult and curse. _

It was a need—an acute, sharp need. And the sooner he ridded himself of that need, than the sooner he'd be able to assess this situation and tackle it in some manner of adult semblance, because handling it like a full-on adult as Seishiro was doing was impossible. Right now, Yuui's mindset was that of a twelve-year-old's. All he wanted to do was to make Ashura _hurt_ and pay for what he did. Which, like he'd confirmed to himself, was not the most mature of things to think about.

"Yuui," Seishiro said. "I'm done." The Maestro stood aside, letting so that if Yuui looked straight ahead, the pianist would be able to see nothing but Ashura, and Ashura only. "I'll check on Kamui and Fai. I trust that when I return, I won't find Ashura dead on the ground, all right?" He sighed wearily. "I mean it, Yuui."

"I can't promise you that," he replied flatly. He was partially afraid that if he pulled on his trusty mask, that the heat behind his eyes—just waiting to fire at Ashura—would burn it through. Besides, in this situation, even Yuui Fluorite smiling and sparkling would be slightly scary.

Seishiro merely sighed dramatically again, flipped the pianist a fleeting smile, and slid out the door, tugging it shut just barely as he left. That was that, meaning Yuui was left with two choices. He could divinely and righteously forgive Ashura for what the bastard had done, or he could get out some of his anger by using Ashura as a punching bag. The right choice was there. But the smart choice was sounding a whole lot better to Yuui—especially as he stood up and advanced toward Ashura.

There were six punches total, and some—or plenty—of slapping. But toward the latter half of the physical infliction, Yuui was hitting more out of desperation as to _why_ rather than anger at the actual deed. _Why_ did Ashura do that to Fai? _Why_ would even the thought of that even appear in Ashura's mind? _Why_ would Ashura go that far if he loved Fai? He certainly loved Fai, since he so coldly shoved Yuui down last spring.

His attacks were getting weaker—weaker until all he could do was let his fists, his hands, slide limply down against Ashura's chest. He couldn't bring himself to _say_ anything; if he did, he'd definitely vomit. This was so useless. _Yuui_ was so useless. Just…_what_ was he supposed to do? What was _anyone_ supposed to do in a situation like this? _What?_ Just tell Yuui, and he'd do it. He was grasping at straws—he was perfectly desperate to do _something_ other than leaning over Ashura like this, with that terrible silence looming over them.

"It doesn't help. It shouldn't. And I know that, but I think I should say it anyway: I'm sorry. For what I did to Fai. But I'm not sorry for why I did it. I had a right to know, you know. Everything."

Yuui drew away. He couldn't argue with this logic, because deep down—extremely deep down—he knew that Ashura was right. The artist did have a right to know exactly everything. He'd abided by Fai's wishes—he'd abided with Yuui's wishes. He'd abided and listened to everything the twins said since the day they'd all met—Ashura had treated the twins' words as law, yet neither Fai nor Yuui had ever imagined that Ashura might like to know what the hell was happening once every while.

The pianist certainly wasn't angry anymore. Now it was back to the dull, throbbing fear that he'd nursed since as long as he could remember—for over a decade; the same fear that told him that Ashura _could not be allowed_ to see Fai. And yet, the same fear that told him Fai and Ashura _absolutely had to be together_. They had to be together, because if Ashura wasn't with Fai, then Yuui knew precisely which way the cogs and gears in Fai's mind would begin to turn.

And in any case, there were worse things than facing Ashura—than being in a room alone with him, than being this _close_ to him and unable to do anything. There was facing Fai. Yuui knew he had to—it was one thing that Ashura didn't see Fai for a while, if Fai knew that his _brother_ needed some time alone…they might as well bury Fai alive right now. Fai's needs and wants always came first—that was the rule Yuui had established for himself, and that was the law he'd obey. Always.

Still, he'd broken it to many times to count, so whenever he could obey it…he would. It wasn't a choice. He had to. He _had_ to. Fai's one sacrifice had spanned out into all of this. Who was Yuui to say that he'd have done the same? They were twins—equally devoted—but who was to say that Yuui would've had the same courage? And the same…well…love to not care that if that one person weren't alive—even if it _was_ his brother—if that _one person_ wasn't alive, he wouldn't have had to go through this.

"I'm going to see Fai," Yuui whispered, staring at the carpet. He waited, knowing that Ashura would probably intrude on the partial invitation to beg the violinist for forgiveness.

Only that he didn't. Ashura's voice was even—toneless. "That's good. Take him with you, all right? There's an extra bed in Kamui's dorm, isn't there?"

"There's an extra bed in my—"

When had Ashura walked up to him? The artist's finger tilted Yuui's face up—_so close_. The room was so silent, their breathing was audible. Soft, suppressed, shuddering breaths. "I know you think the opposite, and I know the last thing you have to do is listen to me…but I really think that Fai would be better off during the night…during the stay…if he stays with Kamui. Not to say that you shouldn't be with him every other minute of the day…but…just let him stay with Kamui. Please."

* * *

Kamui shivered. He shuddered, digging his fingers into his forearms. He could feel himself sliding to the floor, and hitting the ground with a resounding thump. He glanced up at Seishiro, and swallowed—unable to bring himself to look at the slight body on Ashura's bed. "What _was_ that?"

Seishiro glanced down. The Maestro gave a small smile and sat beside the writer with an air of camaraderie. "Just a panic attack. A delayed one, I'd have to say, but nothing out of the ordinary. He'll be better after he sleeps—after all this, I doubt his mind has enough energy to garner up half a nightmare. Fai will sleep like the dead, Yuui will come in and they'll kiss and make up."

Kamui's fingers grated deeper against his sleeved arms. He realized that his cheeks were slicked with liquid—with saltwater. With tears. Crying…? When had he started crying? "Ashura…"

"Ah," Seishiro leaned his head back against the wall. "That's a matter, isn't it? Something will happen. Something always does. Fai's not as weak as he seems, and even though Yuui seems like the stronger twin…well…I think we've both been around in enough to know that nothing is what it seems." The conductor's tone was dry. "Nothing." He peered down at Kamui, and smiled. The boy was hugging himself, eyes wide and unseeing—unfocused. The trail of tears had almost snaked itself down to his shirt collar. The Maestro brought his hand down against the crown of dark hair—almost fur-like in density. Different from Subaru's. "Shh."

Kamui looked up hastily—in a panic. "What?" he said hoarsely. His breathing was shallow, and the moments between when his chest went up and down became shorter by every passing breath intake. Seishiro had a small urge to laugh, but he knew he shouldn't. And he wouldn't. As much as the writer might hate him, the Maestro was actually quite fond of Subaru's infamous twin brother. Just as Seishiro had said earlier, even though one seemed stronger, and another seemed weaker, it was usually reversed. It was no different in the case of the Sumeragi twins. Kamui might be smarter—wiser—but not stronger. In a way, his wariness almost hindered him, whereas Subaru had the ability to love wholeheartedly…without fearing what might happen to him because of it. Although that, too, was a great flaw.

"He's not going to hurt you, you know," Seishiro said indifferently.

Kamui inhaled with a shudder, biting his lip and trying not to actually sob—as the tears were already too far gone to try to stop at all. He hiccoughed and closed his eyes. The air stung them. "Anything can happen. He might not want to, but he might have to. I don't want it to hurt—everyone's hurting, and I don't want to be next. In my stories—"

"Life isn't fiction, but fiction isn't life, either." Seishiro nudged the writer slightly. He tousled Kamui's hair with the hand that'd already been resting on the senior's hair. The only reply given was a small, stifled upheaval of breathy mumbles and some quite pitiful sniffling. The Maestro had to laugh at that—even if only a chuckle. It wasn't often you were able to witness the perfectly composed Kamui Sumeragi break down before you. "You've got to learn to trust."

"You can't trust anyone," a very different voice said. Seishiro glanced up amusedly, and Kamui brought his head up with a sort of weary heaviness. Yuui stood in the doorway, face smiling, twirling room keys in his hand. "The minute you trust is the minute you give yourself up for murder. By the way, deary K, Fai's staying in your room tonight." Yuui laughed, nodding at the writer. "You two can comfort each other all night long underneath your blankies."

Kamui regained that blank, unfocused, unseeing look in his eyes and bowed his head again, resting it in the pillow of his propped knees. Seishiro stood up and grabbed Yuui by the hair—hard and unrelenting. Yuui's eyes were hard and cold, flawlessly impassive. "You're a bitch," Seishiro said calmly, smiling. "I may be a bastard, but I'm a bastard older _brother_. You break Kamui, Kamui might break Fuuma. You need sleep, and you need food. Now. I'm taking Fai and Kamui to their room, and Ashura needs his back. Understand?"

"Crystal clear," Yuui mocked. "Now let me go." Seishiro did more than just that. He practically shoved Yuui at the wall before releasing him. The pianist staggered, but his face remained toward the floor as he padded away, and down the hall.

The Maestro looked down at the completely battered writer, eyed the unconscious violinist, and he didn't even want to think about the mad-hatter insane pianist, and the probably worsened artist. Oh, and of course, he mustn't forget the desperate, impossible trumpeter. All in all, the conductor had his most difficult piece yet to orchestrate. The score was complex, the melodies jumbled, and the harmonies interwoven so delicately, that he was afraid he'd tear one if he tried to undo them.

But he was the Maestro. This was what he did. He walked on stage, onto the platform. He bowed to the audience, and waited until the lights dimmed. He turned to the orchestra, raised his baton, opened the score and then he conducted. Everything played out before him, and everything followed his hand. If he forgot to bring in one section, if he started a hairpin crescendo or diminuendo too late or too early, if he forgot to close off an exiting note…

The entire performance was unsalvageable. The master of the orchestra always threaded a thin line.

And the way things were going now?

Seishiro might as well become a fucking tightrope walker.

* * *

_A/N: UGH. Last day of spring break. This week we'll have to do the mile run. And for those of you who are lucky enough to be athletes, have mercy on us who have the athletic ability of an aphid. And I know last time I said that I'd do a poll about the title candidates for the sequel, but I actually ended up coming up with a decision on my own. The sequel will be officially called, "Unveiled". And if you don't like Mioru....um....I sort of have bad news, since Unveiled WILL have another OC, since I think Mioru deserves his own someone. And to make up for that, the OC will 1) be a guy, 2) be a hot guy, and 3) be part of Yuui and Fai's past and also 4) be a sort of lesson to Yuui, that what goes around comes around, a.k.a., you're past screws WILL someday, come back and bite you in the ass. Anyway. _

_Oh, and you can also tell GREATLY that Intrigue had these guys fooling around, kissing each other, smoking joints, drinking, laughing, flirting, partying, and NOW, they're all catfighting. Well, it's more serious that catfighting, but that's the general idea. And lately, after writing Compelled, I think I have a certain duty to go play "here comes the bride" on my piano, while exchanging the lyrics with, "Here comes the Angst". What do you think?_


	9. Useless

Chapter Eight: Useless

Subaru leaned against the window, watching the rivulets of rain trickle down the fogged glass. He exhaled and pressed his fingertips against the condensation—the cold wetness, and watching the impresses left after he took them away. His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against the cold, clammy surface, breathing in and out carefully. Kamui, Fai, and Yuui were being escorted home in Kotori's limo, but Seishiro had called in at Fuki, and informed them that due to the vigorous college weekend, Subaru would be indisposed to come to school for Monday and Tuesday.

In a way, it was true. Subaru had requested it, but he also had a feeling that Seishiro would've done it anyway. After all, the Maestro never left footprints, and the conductor's tracks were all over Subaru. Seishiro had needed stress relief, and for the entire weekend, that was Subaru had been. The trumpeter hadn't complained—not even spoken—once to the conductor. He was still trying to forget what'd happened that Friday evening.

Yuui had come barreling into Seishiro's room, demanding that the Maestro get the fuck out and come with him to Ashura's room. Seishiro had simply met eyes with the pianist once, and the Maestro had grabbed his cell phone and was ready to sprint alongside Yuui. And when Subaru had touched the conductor's hand, about to ask what was going on, Seishiro said the words that bled into Subaru like dry ice: "Fuck off, Subaru."

But of course, the Fluorite twins came first. They were the prize of the Maestro's orchestra. And then there was Kamui. It had been Kamui's shoulders the Maestro's arm was wrapped around as the conductor had guided Subaru's shivering, shuddering brother back to his dorm. It'd been Kamui Subaru had watched Seishiro talk to in a low, soft voice before leaving the writer's dorm doorway. Kamui, Fai, and Yuui. They were the only people Seishiro ever truly cared about besides Fuuma.

There had been a time when Subaru would've thought that he himself belonged in that special, rare, exclusive category in Seishiro's heart—maybe even more. That thought had long since turned into a fantasy—a particularly ridiculous and vapid fantasy. "Stupid," he mouthed to himself, opening his eyes reluctantly. The blackness was so beautiful—so soothing. He'd do anything to be able to see anything other than this room—filled with belongings of a person he wished he could hate. At the same time, he'd do anything to have Seishiro love him. Or at least pretend he did. Better yet, he wished he could turn back time and stay forever when he could still believe that Seishiro loved him—liked him, at least.

He shut his eyes again, remembering everything. It was so easy to remember—the images had been embedded into the insides of his eyelids since he dreamed of these memories so frequently. Eighth grade—he'd kissed Seishiro…so many times…flirting…laughing…staying overnight…but Seishiro hadn't once touched him…not until freshman year. Freshman year—again, and again, and again…sex. So much sex. It'd never felt like enough. But they'd still spent so much time together…flirting until Kamui threatened he'd throw up…laughing until their stomachs hurt…talking until the sun rose, and sleeping until they missed lunch.

It'd been sophomore year that things started to go wrong. Seishiro was busy—busy with looking at colleges, visiting Akamizu and making preparations as the future student conductor (Akamizu only accepted one conductor every four years—when one graduated, they'd accept another….or when a better one appeared, they threw the current one out), completing his Tasks. As the future Maestro, he couldn't have just one task. He had to complete ten. And anyone would guess that at least half of those tasks had been to seduce infamous legacies—all in the Holy Trinity.

Of course Seishiro completed them all.

Subaru had been heartbroken for the first three. After the rest, he'd become accustomed. He'd convinced himself stupidly—immensely stupid—that Seishiro had slept with them only because they were tasks. And besides, Seishiro had broken the rules and told Subaru. If the conductor hadn't loved him, he wouldn't have taken that risk, would he?

Wrong. Subaru had been part of the final task. If Subaru had left Seishiro after those first five cheats, and last five challenges, then Seishiro would have been a normal Sacred. But Subaru had blindly stayed with Seishiro—stubbornly and stupidly. Which meant Seishiro became the Maestro. Officially, and forever—or at least until there was another that rivaled him.

Subaru opened his eyes. He exhaled a shudder. What would he give—what would he do—if only he could have that Seishiro back? No, what would he do or give just to have Seishiro? Not the Maestro. But Seishiro. Regardless of what anyone said, Subaru had once thought that Seishiro would never be the Maestro to him. Seishiro would just be Seishiro.

The trumpeter was beginning to wonder if maybe his thinking should be reversed. To him, "the Maestro" had always been Seishiro's front, and "Seishiro" had always been the truth. Now…Subaru was almost made certain that it was vice versa. Which meant that the person Subaru was in love with didn't even exist. And knowing that was practically ripping him from the inside out.

* * *

Seishiro smiled and leaned his head against his palm. He crossed his legs. He uncrossed his legs. Currently, he was in the Hall with Ashura Ou, seated at the Sacred circle of chairs. And currently, he was trying to convince the artist why he _shouldn't_ commit suicide, and present his body to Fai Fluorite on a silver platter—albeit, an extremely large, silver platter. So far, they'd already covered that 1) Transportation would be a pain, 2) Fai might then kill himself as well, and 3) _Yuui_ would then kill himself, and that meant the entire plan was useless in the first place. But, Ashura seemed determined to do it all the same. "You _do_ know that you sound like an angsty preteen boy right now, right?"

Although, truthfully, no matter what Ashura sounded like at the moment, there was only one way to describe how he looked, and that was utterly, completely, and undeniably _dead_. The phrase "starving artist" could be taken quite literally when anyone looked at Ashura ever since Friday. And since the artist was one of Seishiro's ex-students from Fuki, the other Sacreds (especially Kotori, who _adored_ Ashura—although, she seemed to adore everyone, even plants) would have Seishiro's head if Ashura died of anorexia. Or other causes.

"You wouldn't have to listen to me at all if you didn't continue to call me up every hour or so," Ashura said, sounding almost bored. All right, so Seishiro might be exaggerating. Ashura was guilty—Ashura felt guilty, but Ashura didn't feel it to the point where was considering self-destruction. In fact, his art was improving rapidly. Perhaps angst and guilt were magnificent muses. "I told you, I'm not seeing Fai."

Except for that part.

That was the part Seishiro didn't get. Well, he did get it, but he'd decided to play the confused third party—which in his opinion was a _marvelous_ tactic in normal cases, but most cases that Seishiro had to face weren't even close to a semblance of normal. If Ashura weren't so guilt-ridden that he couldn't even look at Fai, why wouldn't the artist see him? And if Ashura continued to be adamant about this, what _were_ he and Fai now? Boyfriends? Ex-boyfriends? No-longer-even-acknowledging-one-another's-presence-friends? What? Matters like these had to be tackled quickly and right at the root, before they could blossom and worsen.

"Why?" They'd probably gone through this ritual six times, already, but Seishiro wasn't about to stop the cycle until Ashura decided he would take the high road and just _talk to Fai_. No, in fact, at this point, Seishiro didn't even care if Ashura talked to Fai. The artist could hire a sign language translator for all the Maestro cared. The two just needed to have some sort of in-person contact. _Something_—that was all it took.

In any case, Seishiro had more pressing problems that Fluorite drama—which might as well be the name of a soap opera, as far as the conductor was concerned, since those brothers were somehow able to come up with a new conflict every week; nonetheless, entertaining, too.

Subaru.

Stupid, ridiculous, childish, stubborn, immature, troublesome, infuriating, annoying, hellish, tormenting, beautiful, perfect, amazing, innocent, wonderful, spectacular, kind, understanding, brilliant Subaru. Yes. Even Seishiro—the Maestro—wasn't so fucking blind and in-denial that he wouldn't admit it at this point: He loved Subaru. He loved Subaru so fucking much that every night—every _single night_—he'd caress his cell phone in his hand, sitting on his bed, and he'd stare at Subaru's name on his list. He'd just stare at it, as if the letters spelling out the name that floated through his mind every time he took a breath would bring him some sort of epiphany as to _why_. Why did he have to love someone? Why did anyone have the ability to love? It was fucking useless.

This was probably the reason that led to Seishiro being _nice_ to Kamui. He finally understood why Kamui was terrified of being with Fuuma—and made it so blatantly obvious. Seishiro wasn't being nice…really, he was empathizing with Kamui. Even though Seishiro managed to disguise it far better, he was just as terrified as the writer. Absolutely fucking scared shitless.

And Subaru was the one suffering for it. It was all Seishiro could do. To just close his eyes and try to block the sound of Subaru's stifled moans of pain in pleasure's stead; to block the sight of blood streaking down Subaru's thigh; to block the look of patient anguish in Subaru's green, green eyes. Yes, it did hurt Seishiro. But it also gave him some sort of weak satisfaction. As if to get back at Subaru—to avenge Seishiro himself. To avenge what, Seishiro didn't really know. Or rather, he knew, and he didn't want to think that way, because even someone like him didn't want to seem that heartless.

In short, Seishiro wanted Subaru to suffer. Seishiro hated Subaru. Why? Because Subaru made Seishiro fall in love with him.

* * *

_A/N: So...it was short, this chapter, but since the last few were monster ones, I thought that this was enough. Plus, I couldn't lump it with anything else, as for me, that ending was pure AngstyWIN. Still, naughty Seishiro! *wacks him with umbrella* You see? I love CLAMP's psychos. Anyway, I still haven't gotten around to making those chapters of Music to My Ears that take the versions of the characters from this universe. But you can still watch for them, 'cause I'll make them soon. By the way, I decided that a big event/plotpoint is going to majorly use the song If U Seek Amy. And all of you will probably be either going "Psh, screw that song", or "COOL! Britney!" Anyway, I'm with the group of people who are indifferent to Britney, and most times dislike her greatly, but take great shame in being addicted to her songs anyway for some inexplicable reason. This one just happens to be PERFECT writing material in the way of lyrics. _

_If you wanna hug Subaru, raise your hand. *shoots hand up*_


	10. Lovely Terror

Chapter Nine: Lovely Terror

Kamui stared at the black letters scripted elegantly on the stiff paper. His fingers nervously frayed its edges as his eyes scanned the contents of the words again and again. The paper, once neatly folded thrice, was now flat enough to lie against the table by itself due to his incessant reading. Kotori had given the letter to him after she'd dropped him off. The only clue she'd given him as to what was written within was a smile, a wink, and a kiss on the forehead.

He was beginning to wish he'd dropped the letter in a random puddle while he still could and call it an "accident". Even though he knew that he shouldn't be complaining. Anyone else would have given him all their worldly possessions to have that letter addressed to them. Especially any writer. But no. This was addressed to Kamui, and he knew he'd complete it. No matter how much he wished he'd never gotten this, he'd complete it.

Still, Kamui couldn't help but wonder what he'd ever done for Kotori that had pulled him to her heart. He'd always heard of her, definitely—heard her sing, seen her perform, thought she was amazingly pretty and talented and kind. But he himself hadn't actually…held a conversation with her. He didn't know that much about her as a person, either. Other than the fact that she was Fuuma's cousin—he knew that she adored Fuuma, certainly. But Kotori was the kind of girl that adored everyone. Perhaps she adored Kamui even more so.

Either way, before him, lying on his desk, amidst the trillions of papers—crumpled and otherwise—and spiral notebooks and composition notebooks and battered copies of _Gone With the Wind_ and _The Scarlet Letter_ and _Romeo and Juliet _and _Animal Farm _and pens and pencils and sharpies and tape…was his task. As soon as he'd read the task, he'd nearly laughed at first. The reason was because it was such a writer's task. _Such _a writer's task. And it was specifically designed not only to test his talents, but to test the exact horror that'd had him bundled into a little ball in the corner of Ashura's dorm during college weekend.

He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, and he'd already waited about a month since receiving the letter. It wasn't as if he hadn't yet tried already, but even when he came up with something decent, maybe even considerably good…it just never seemed _right_. There was something missing—something vitally crucial. Kamui picked up his pen and suckled the tip thoughtfully, furrowing his eyebrows. He pressed his tongue against the cold metal side and widened his eyes at the realization. Indeed, there wasn't something missing.

Some_one_ was missing.

* * *

Watanuki wanted to cut off his ears. He wanted to tear them off so he could never hear again. He placed his book bag against the footboard of his bed and sat gingerly on the edge, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. He pulled off his glasses and stared at them blurrily. Was he…would he really let himself be influenced by what they'd said? Was he really that spineless? No…it wasn't just because they'd said it. He'd already been thinking about this for a long time to come. Ever since summer vacation had begun, this had been on his mind, and it'd refused to fade.

It'd always been on his mind: _He was gay. _

He hadn't quite known how to treat it. At first, it was just a passive thing, but the more it resided at the side of his mind, the bolder it became in everything he thought about. Nearly every morning since, he'd awoken and thought of that only. In everything he'd done, somehow, the fact that he was gay worked itself into it. Everything. Ironically, the only time he forgot was when he was with Doumeki. When with Doumeki, all thoughts were wiped clean.

Meaning?

Watanuki always had some way to pull Doumeki into sex—never talking, never anything else. Just sex. Because if they talked, Watanuki was terrified that that thought would come back…he was terrified to…if it was sex…anyone could have sex with anyone. But talking? Flirting? Laughing? Then he'd truly be gay. Gay. Not normal. Not straight. Bent. It was just…

And then, of course, there'd been that group. That group of freshmen. Watanuki knew their faces—he'd seen them at parties towards the end of summer. It was general knowledge these days that they were children of a group of people who'd recently moved in to the town—nouveau rich. And if you were a socialite born and bred as Watanuki was—as Doumeki, and the Fluorites, and the Sumeragi, the Aoi, the Ou, the Sakurazuka (especially so), , the Kinomoto, the Tsukishiro, the You-ou, and so on. If your family was one that rolled in old money, then you'd have been brought up knowing that nouveau rich was synonymous with _unequal, not one of us, bad, unworthy, slimy. _

Although that was somewhat…mean, Watanuki complied, it was somewhat true. Nouveau rich all had one thing in common, and Watanuki had thus far never seen it proven wrong: They didn't know how to spend their money. They simply didn't. There were two types of nouveau rich—only two. The first type was so shocked that they'd been this fortunate, that they didn't spend at all. They merely clutched their purses to their chests and hid away; only coming out to attend balls and galas in clothes that hardly showed their affluence. The second type was equally awful; they were the exact opposite. They, too, were shocked with their fortune, so this type spent it all lavishly. Not more lavishly than the born and bred socialites, just not…wisely. They didn't know what to buy; they thought that because they had acquired wealth, they no longer needed class and style.

Money cannot buy everything. Class and style were just two of those things. But nouveau rich also were not used to the almost…reckless lifestyles that the young socialites all gave way to. Their children had all been brought up in regular homes, in regular neighborhoods with regular schools filled with regular children. Coming to a town like this, Watanuki thought dryly, was like moving to the desert after living in the arctic.

He'd already watched at least five of the girls in that clump of nouveau rich freshmen fawning over the Fluorite twins, the Sumeragi twins, and the Maestro. And possibly Fuuma. And all five of them also claimed that the objects of their affections loved them back. And they planned to ask them out. Soon. It was clear that at their old schools, they'd all been the Circus. They'd soon find out that here, the Circus was life and death, and there was no net beneath the tightrope. Daddy's new money could buy you a new Yves Saint Laurent, but it won't buy you what you really want.

More importantly, regular childhood = conservative childhood. These freshmen weren't used to seeing beautiful young boys and beautiful Amazonian girls. Much less beautiful gay boys and beautiful lesbian Amazonian girls. And it was human nature to fear what was different and unknown, and to disguise fear with dignified hate.

Leading to Watanuki's point: He'd walked past the group—huddled together—at free period, and heard them bluntly (and unwisely) talking in loud, unashamed voices about the unnaturalness of gays and how their newly-in-power fathers would have to make a lot of changes "around these parts" to fix things.

To say the least, Watanuki knew that more than three-quarters of the boys in the group were pummeled by Doumeki himself, not to mention that Kurogane and Mioru soon came a-running to beat the boys. And then, as if to worsen things, Kurogane and Mioru began making-out in front of the female portion of the group, just to spite the ones who thought they'd have a chance with either of the two—reducing three girls to near tears. Fuuma also had to drag Kamui along, listening to the girls' pleas, before grimacing and kissing Kamui—following Kurogane and Mioru's leads suit.

Although, Watanuki would be lying if he'd said that he hadn't felt great satisfaction at the sight of the teachers listening to the boys' protests at why Doumeki, Kurogane, Mioru, and Fuuma hadn't received detention, and the teachers' haughty replies of, "I don't see these boys doing anything upsetting to the educational atmosphere" and promptly hauling them off to the office. After all, old money stretched to the Board of Education. Which was run by the parents. In short, Watanuki thought that it was probably better to remain regular than risk becoming nouveau rich.

But there words till bothered him. He couldn't forget the way they'd spoken them—so sure, as if they truly hated gays. As if gays had honestly done them some personal wrong—as if gays were…evil. Unnatural. Disgusting. Awful. Horrible. Mistakes. Freaks.

Watanuki wanted to know what went on in their heads. Was it just jealousy that'd spurned those freshmen along? Or did they actually feel that way—were they actually opinionated so strongly against gays? He just…he held his head in his hands…how was it so wrong to love who you loved? No…in fact…why _did _he have to be gay? And if he…never talked…with Doumeki…never really…did anything with the forward…how could he even be sure he was gay?

What if…he wasn't?

* * *

Fuuma looked around the dark room; he closed the door behind him. The air whizzed with the low hum of the computers, the master computer, and the printing equipment. Row after row of monitors he searched until he located the full head of mussed dark hair, pouring over the master computer at the teacher's desk. The athlete stood behind the swivel chair, placing either hand on the edge of the table, trapping the person on the chair. Fuuma pressed his nose in the nook behind the writer's ear.

Kamui swiveled the entire chair around, so that he was backed up against the desk, just inches separating the two boys. He smiled and wordlessly pushed himself up, touching lips to lips lightly. "Good. You're not late."

Fuuma grinned, curling one finger beneath Kamui's chin, and hooking another through the writer's empty belt loop. He tipped the writer's head to the side, and leaned down to inhale along the pale column of the senior's throat; Kamui's hands rode up on Fuuma's shoulders, up into his hair. "So what inspired this?" the athlete inquired bemusedly. "It takes me tooth and nail to get you to do it in the comfort of your own house, and now you want to do it in the computer lab at school? _My_ school, too."

"Are you scared?" Kamui challenged. "There's no lock on the door. Any of your classmates could walk in on us any time. Are you afraid they'd hate you for being gay?" He smirked, knowing full well the answer he was about to get.

"You're a bastard," Fuuma said, rolling his eyes. His lips twitched, as though restraining with utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing. "You _know_ that if they see you alone, they'll get boners, and if they see us together, they'll start trying to jump in—no pun intended." He brought up Kamui's face and kissed him again—long and deep.

Kamui followed after Fuuma when the athlete begin to draw away for air, hounding him with swift, brief kisses—short, but intense; tempting him, catching him. When the need for oxygen finally became a true necessity, and they were staring at each other, gasping, Kamui frowned teasingly. "You don't seem very enthusiastic. Maybe you're just not up for it?" He arched an eyebrow.

Fuuma answered, not with a cleverly infuriating retort as usual, but by ramming Kamui into the chair with full force, and capturing the writer's lips so roughly that Kamui gasped subconsciously before being silenced. The chair was about to capsize with the full-on force that Fuuma was attacking Kamui at. The writer's arms entwined tightly around the sophomore's neck, to keep from being flattened completely. He could hardly breathe, even between the hard contact of their mouths and tongues, but Kamui had a great suspicion it was more to do with what Fuuma was doing in the journalist's mouth and less to do with the fact that he was being slammed repeatedly against the chair.

But this was what Kamui wanted to happen. At Maikeru, with no one that he knew well to bother him—to stray his thoughts—in the darkness of the computer room…explicitly at school, Fuuma ravaging him without a care…this was perfect. After this, while Fuuma slept it out or left, Kamui would write. He would write rapidly, because as Fuuma tore their clothes off and knocked the teacher's desk empty before pushing Kamui atop it, the senior could already hear the words circling in his mind.

The athlete pressed his body against Kamui, between the spread, pale thighs. But Kamui didn't want this to be the passive school sex that it was seemingly heading for. He needed this to be wildly enticing. With one hand on Fuuma's chest, he placed the soccer player at a standstill while he pulled out a joint from his discarded pants and set it alight. Fuuma's eyes watched with temptation so strong, it could easily be mistaken as pain, as Kamui put the joint between his lips.

Kamui circled around, and pushed Fuuma on to the table, reversing their positions. He went down on all fours between Fuuma's legs on the table, blowing smoke lightly into the athlete's face, his eyes speaking an unspoken dare. Fuuma's mouth opened slightly as he watched Kamui remove the joint, the writer's one finger tracing the sophomore's bottom lip, inserting the joint between Fuuma's lips.

As Fuuma inhaled the heady pot, closing his eyes, he felt a jolt and his head threw itself back instinctively as he felt Kamui's lips trace a path down from his chest…over his stomach…down…down…_down_. The athlete held the joint between his fingers, as he looked on, mesmerized at the sight of the delicate lips and the slender tongue devouring his cock. Kamui steadied himself with one hand on either of Fuuma's thighs, as the athlete's wiry body shook and Fuuma's eyes closed and his head snapped back in a sound that flitted between a sigh and a moan.

Kamui spat the fluids to the side, hearing the infinitesimal splatter, and promptly taking back his joint. He replaced it into his own mouth and smiled angelically at Fuuma. The athlete grinned back, wrapping his fingers around Kamui's thin wrist and pulling the writer toward him, tangling their lips together for another kiss. The kiss morphed into a shotgun, and Kamui blindly reached down to his floored pants once again. The minute they drew apart, Kamui ripped open the square wrapper in his hand and pushed the rubber material down over Fuuma's member.

Fuuma was hot—_hot_. It was time he retake the reigns. Yes, it was interesting at times when Kamui took them in his childish hands, but they both knew it was Fuuma who rode hardest. The athlete flipped their standings again, turning Kamui beneath him, and pressing himself against Kamui's back. Fuuma placed himself at the ready, and placed his lips against the nape of Kamui's neck. There was no lubricant, and at this point, neither of them cared—neither of their minds knew any logic. It was simply movement—simply need and desire.

With every thrust, Kamui would shiver and shout and sigh, and Fuuma would whisper into his ear, lips at his throat, and steady them both. Kamui closed his eyes and let himself _feel_. This was what he was going to write. Everything—all these sensations—Fuuma inside of him, Fuuma's hands ravaging him, Fuuma's lips marking him, Fuuma's body dancing with his…it was not nearly as captivating, but he'd turn all of this into words and paper. Into black and white in a Word document. He would paint it onto the page.

They knew each other's bodies so well now—they knew each other so well now. The command to hurry—to rush—just barely began to form on Kamui's lips, when Fuuma had already done so. Before Fuuma could even tell Kamui that he'd almost reached his peak, Kamui had already replied. Before they could steady each other to climax simultaneously, they'd already done so. And before Kamui could ask Fuuma to stay, Fuuma had already wrapped his arms around the writer and kissed his lips.

* * *

By noon on Sunday of that same week, college socialites were staring open-mouthed at their phones. High school socialites were staring shocked at their copies of Addictive. Adult socialites were staring scandalized at their copies of Elite. And Fuuma Sakurazuka was staring like a corpse that had just been brought back to life at a text his cell phone, and copies of the latest issue of Addictive and Elite—which had all been sent to him through his father's office from a business card signed: bWitch. But regardless of how all on the social scene had received the knews, their eyes all read the same thing--the exact same thing.

_Lovely Terror_

By: Kamui Sumeragi, senior at Fuki Institution of the Arts for Young Gentlemen

I love you, and you love me

If only that was all that mattered

But it's not, so after every one night,

I'm terrified about if it shattered.

So what to do from now on,

When the one I love terrorizes me?

And even though I still await and want,

Another of my heart is too terrified to see.

No. Not for reasons that cross a mind.

Rather mine come from tragedy unrelated.

But he continues to return and to persist—

Are we coincidence or are we fated?

Control no longer belongs to me.

It slips and refuses to return near.

Though, likely, it's because I don't deserve it.

Since for control, you can't have fear.

Extremely, I'm confused—I'm fully lost.

Is love supposed to heal and soothe?

But this thing hurts and aches…

I think all sense I'll definitely lose.

Wait, though, this love is not all dark.

He touches me sweet; his lips speak kind.

But, even then so, there is still some ink—

I still can't decipher this type of bind.

And yet, maybe perhaps I have.

Maybe it's just as it appears, none else.

Perhaps there is nothing more to seek—

I've just been making more of less.

So steal from me a sigh, steal from me a tremor…

Steal anything but my heart, my lovely, lovely terror.

* * *

_Kamui Sumeragi has completed his Task._

_Welcome to the Trinity, Deary K._

* * *

A/N: Wellll.......I wrote that sex scene at like midnight, so forgive me if it kind of sucks. Plus, I'm not good at writing thorough ones like that, anyway. I can't do hot and steamy--romantic and figurative, sure, but not the heavy stuff that gets you wetter than Niagra falls. Anyway, also excuse that awful innuendo/orwhateveritis, since the boys who sit around me seem to be approaching mating season. So, the Watanuki part was another part of GG and another high society series called the Luxe (that's the first book anyway), which is basically like GG only back in the very late 1800s, with the Vanderbilts and stuff like that. Er, so yeah, old money is important. Also, yes, I did write that poem that Kamui used to complete his task. I'll have the letter Kotori wrote to him when assiging his task in the next chapter, hopefully.

Oh, and I don't know if it was made clear or not, but when you complete your Task, is when you get your "bWitch name". Like until then, or until you're in college, whenever you're mentioned in bWitch's blogs, you're just "this person" or "there is this girl" or "this guy", like that. So when you get your "welcome" text, that's when you first have your "letter" used by bWitch. You've got to be major like Seishiro to have a "name" before you're in the Trinity or college.


	11. Break

Chapter Ten: Break

Yuui couldn't believe this. He couldn't believe that everything had come down to this. Life could very well slope from wonderful to shit, he knew, but he never knew that shit meant misery of this caliber. Nor had he known that it could affect everyone and everything around him so thoroughly. Or maybe he had, but he never wanted to think about it, and therefore, taught himself to never expect that it'd ever happen. And his standard of misery was higher than most, but oddly enough, even what with the Kyle-Fai load he'd been handed for life…even that wasn't as bad as this.

Or rather, it was bad, but he thought he could survive it. He _knew_ he could survive it because he had Kamui. And Seishiro. And Subaru. And Fai. And Ashura. Even if some of them didn't know the whole story, they made life bearable—pleasant, enjoyable. They…they were his friends, much as he cringed at the mere sound of the word.

He didn't like what the "friends" concept was applied as—as some sort of lifelong buddy because of shared interests and ideals and strong sense of loyalty and all that crap. Because, really, it wasn't true at all. The only shared interests any of them—excluding Fai—possessed were general interests of young socialites: sex, money, and drugs. They didn't really have ideals, unless you counted superiority and inferiority complexes as ideals. And loyal was a bit of an underestimating term, as they were more obsessed with one another rather than loyal.

A socialite had a twisted definition of nearly everything a normal, middle class citizen would think of. "Friend" was just one of them. In the sense that any regular person would think of a friend as, none of them were really friends at all. But in their own special classification and slightly messed-up way of thinking, they were the best friends any partially sane socialite would find. They weren't perfect, but they tried. They loved each other. Most of them had slept with one another.

But now, they all hated each other.

No, not hated as in they despised and loathed one another; but hated as in they were completely at odds with one another. They were fighting themselves, fighting each other, and some of them didn't even know why they were fighting. Most of them were fighting because something had them panicked, and when those who were used to being in _control and perfect and flawless and composed _were panicked by something unknown—they fought. They fought to defend and to keep everything away—away at the greatest distance possible.

Yes, it was true that distances separated what was potentially harmful, but distances also separate what could help you—possibly, what you needed and wanted. And in this case, for all of them in one way or another—it was love. Or at least, the suspicion of it.

Seishiro was terrified of falling in love with Subaru, and so the Maestro fought—he was thrashing as wildly as a newly caught horse, refusing to be tamed and refusing to listen to anyone that might help him. Refused point blank to reason. Yuui didn't know exactly what they did behind the closed doors of Seishiro's door, but he decided that his plate was full enough; and knowing might be worse than ignorance in this case.

Subaru was afraid of giving up on his love for Seishiro—afraid of how much it might hurt to actually cut the bond. He thought it might hurt more than facing rejection over and over again; he never thought of how even if closure hurt more at first, it was like relief once endured. Again, Yuui hadn't spoken to the trumpeter in weeks. None of them had.

Just as Kamui had learned to slowly step-by-step approach Fuuma and the athlete's feelings for him, Seishiro and Subaru's worsened, and exactly like those cause and effect charts Yuui hated to complete in elementary school, it was turning a tidal wave of effect onto Kamui. And Yuui knew it was affecting Fuuma as well.

And Ashura and Fai were so inexplicably knotted around so tightly and spinning each other right round over and over again that Yuui didn't even want to think about them, unless he was ready for a headache. Fai wasn't even showing emotion anymore these days—simply and literally like a sex machine. Yuui couldn't even tell if he came any more no matter how much Kyle fed him Viagra, or pounded into him. In result, Kyle was getting frustrated, as were the "clients". It seemed like it was a matter of time before they began beating him to induce responses.

Oh. And, of course, no one thought to talk about their problems. Even though they all obviously knew about how they were all screwing themselves and each other, none of them cared to acknowledge it. They were all too busy into themselves. Too terrified to let any of the others know that they needed help. Because they'd all been taught to believe that help equaled weakness, and weakness was disgusting. Abhorring.

And if they wouldn't talk, how would they solve this? They were all stuck, and none of them were willing to be the first one to bow their heads, let go, and start working on moving along through this, rather than trying to do the impossible and find a way around it. Worst part was, Yuui himself wasn't about to let go, because just like the others, he couldn't comprehend the difference between admitting defeat and letting go.

* * *

Fuuma looked blankly at Kamui. The athlete didn't quite know whether he wanted to grin, laugh, kiss Kamui, tackle Kamui onto the bed, babble gibberish, or simply continue to stare blankly at Kamui. The first words out of his mouth, however, turned out to be, "It was a task…right?"

Kamui shifted nervously, as he was seated on his bed, and Fuuma was sitting backwards on the chair that belonged with his desk. "Right. Did you…" Kamui winced and brought his large eyes up to Fuuma's. "Y'know…like…it?" Fuuma's eyebrows went up as Kamui wrapped his arms around his frame and bit his lip.

"It was fucking brilliant writing, if that's what you meant," Fuuma said slowly. He leaned forward, folding his arms atop the chair and resting his chin against them. "But," he grinned, "I was wondering whether you'd tell me what you meant by me being a 'lovely terror'. I mean, I admit that I'm the loveliest person you'll ever have the good fortune to meet"—Kamui snorted—"but I didn't know I terrified you." The sophomore's eyes softened, as Kamui looked away.

Fuuma stood up and crossed the room, sitting down beside Kamui. He lay down, spread eagle across Kamui's bed, and watched the ceiling in silence. It wasn't so much that the poem had scared him, or disappointed him, or disturbed him in any way. It was more that very last part—that last stanza, that last couplet. If Kamui had put his real thoughts into that…was he saying that he didn't want to give his heart to Fuuma?

Kamui turned and knelt on the bed, inching nearer to the athlete. Fuuma felt the writer's small hand crawl into his own, larger one. "It's a good kind of terrified," Kamui said quietly. Fuuma looked around at the writer, waiting. "I don't know how to explain it…but it's not really _you_ that terrifies me. Or maybe not just you." Fuuma felt the thin fingers thread through his.

"Really," Fuuma mused. "Well. In any case, you're a Sacred now. If I'm allowed to know, could I ask who nominated you? I'd like to know who gave you that wonderful task that cleared _every_thing up for me." He smiled, and Kamui scowled.

Kamui pushed his head back farther and deeper into the mattress. "It was your cousin. Kotori. She was my guide for the college visit, and I suppose she liked me. I don't know how she could've found anything to like in the three days that she met me, but apparently she did." He glanced at Fuuma, gauging the athlete's expression. "But she did tell me that you were her favorite cousin—it might've been that instead. If it is, I owe you."

"Nah." Fuuma grinned at the ceiling. "I have a feeling she would've chosen you anyway." His eyes slid toward Kamui. "And my feelings are usually right, y'know."

One of the writers' eyebrows rose. "No, I wouldn't, actually. I can't think for a single instance when your premonitions are ever correct. Sadly, they always turn wayward and result in disastrous endings for both you and all parties involved." Kamui inhaled in time as Fuuma rolled on top of him, holding himself up with his elbows framing the senior's head.

Fuuma grinned. "That was some nice tongue work, right there. Sounded like a real writer."

"I _am_ a real writer." In earlier times, Kamui might've spastically struggled to slip out from beneath Fuuma, whilst trying to deny the fact that he very much adored this position with immense vehemence. Nowadays, he merely upped his eyebrows the tiniest bit, and looked upon the sophomore with slight boredom and more parts amusement.

"True." Fuuma brought his lips down steadily onto the now-Sacred, and held their lips together, opening his eyes and gazing carefully at the bluish veins embedded into the soft, pale eyelids. He drew away, and watched Kamui sigh, and open his own eyes. "But I still don't get it. Was her task to write a poem about me?" He rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow. "If it was, you didn't have to go full out like that, y'know."

Kamui stared steadily into his eyes. Silently, and expressionlessly. Without breaking the wordlessness, the writer stood up and crossed over to his desk, opening a drawer and extricating a rather thick piece of creased and folded paper. He walked back and tossed it at Fuuma before retaking his spread-eagle position.

Fuuma only eyed him questionably for a moment. The athlete sat up, and picked up the letter to read. Kamui watched the golden eyes move back and forth as they scanned the words. He himself had read it so many times already that he could recite it word for word by pure memory.

_Dear Kamui, _

_I know that we've known each other for only a short amount of time—the few fortunate days that I was able to accompany you while you toured the wonderful college that is Akamizu. But as you probably already know by word of mouth, I also happen to be Seishiro and Fuuma Sakurazuka's cousin. My sister and I have always had a fond relationship with our cousins, having visited them at least thrice a week while we were children; we are more like siblings than cousins. _

_And thus, even though Fuuma himself has not been kind enough to tell me, I've heard myself by word of mouth that you two are very, very close friends. Fuuma has always been my favorite cousin, while my older sister, Hokuto, favored Seishiro. And so, it delights me to see that Fuuma has found someone, for the time being, if not for life. I also know that Fuuma intends wholeheartedly to join Akamizu, as he—like myself, my sister, and Seishiro—is indeed a legacy. Meaning, that I offer you this Task in congratulations for choosing Akamizu. _

_Now, Kamui, I don't know if you know this already, but Fuuma loves you. He does. And I know because I know Fuuma. But I don't know you. Not as well as I know him, at least. I know you can't force love. But I have a feeling that you do love him. Let's call it…woman's intuition? Anyway. Now, I don't know whether you truly love him or not. But love him or not, I'd like you to complete this Task:_

_Are you familiar with the blog bWitch? Yes, well, if you are not, she's an infamous blogger of sorts that handles…everything in general rather infuriatingly but with exceptional talent. In fact, I've heard that you are currently interning for her. And because you are, here's what I'd like you to do: I'd like you to write a poem. Any poem, any form, any shape, size, and length. And I'd like you to send that poem to Yuuko Ichihara—the woman you intern for, then, have her send it out. To all her magazines and blogs and just…everything. _

_Let the world know how you feel about Fuuma Sakurazuka. Because that, Kamui, is something you'll need to become a Sacred. It's true, Sacreds will have their life plastered on headlines more than once. But sometimes, we have to plaster those headlines _ourselves_. And for good reason. And we have to be able to put up with whatever reaction the public throws back at us. _

_So, Kamui, will you do it? Let the world know who and how you love._

_Love, _

_Kotori Monou._

Fuuma smiled. Kamui glanced at his expression and snatched the letter out of his hand. "Shut up." The writer threw the letter at his desk and crawled away backwards from Fuuma. The athlete shrugged and simply continued to smile quietly and infuriatingly to himself. Kamui chucked a pillow at the sophomore.

"I haven't said anything," Fuuma replied easily, he took up a handful of Kamui's hair and began playing with it, stroking it round and round his fingers. The skin between Kamui's eyes creased a little as he watched Fuuma wear that absolutely irritating expression on his face. As if he knew something Kamui didn't, and that just killed the writer. An arrow right through his dignity.

"By not saying anything, I can hear every word you're saying," said Kamui. "Loud and clear."

* * *

Fai pulled his knees up to the bed, grimacing softly as his new bruises bumped against each other. He seeped his toes underneath the edge of the duvet, watching his brother yanking on a coat and slipping on his shoes. "Where're you going?" he asked dully. Yuui didn't stop moving to look at Fai. His brother glanced at him as he grabbed a random scarf and walked to the door.

Yuui smiled sadly at Fai. "I'm going to apologize to a friend." He dipped in and kissed the violinist on the lips. "I'll be out for a while. Depending on how much groveling it takes form Kamui to forgive me. I'm guessing about at least half an hour's worth. Maybe less if he's in a good mood. What d'you think?"

Fai laughed and collapsed spread-eagle, uncurling his legs gingerly. "I don't think it'll take you even five minutes. He's your best friend. Sometimes I think he'd be better suited to be your brother than I am. He's definitely done you more good than I have." Yuui's hand lingered on his brother's cheek.

"Won't you come to school tomorrow?" the pianist said quietly. "Even Kyle's getting worried. He's going to force you to go sooner or later, anyhow—people will get suspicious, and they'll pin everything on him. It'll get worse if you don't go on…"

Fai stared up at the ceiling. "What's the point?"

To that, Yuui had no answer. He took in a shuddering breath and his hand faded away from Fai's cheek. "I'll see you later. Kyle won't be back 'till next week…so…think about it…'kay?"

Fai watched his brother walk out the door. He turned his head back to face the ceiling and closed his eyes wearily. The past few weeks had been devoid of everything—even pain. He couldn't feel anything, much as he'd like to. Kyle and the clients had been taking it rougher—doing anything to make Fai cry out. To make him show some sort of emotion. Thus, the bruises.

And Fai might've been able to gather enough energy to attend school if he'd truly wanted to, but honestly, he didn't. School would just surround him with more of his classmates, and remind him of how in another life…had he been born someone else…he could've been normal. He could've been anyone else in the world, but he had to be Fai Fluorite. He had to be born as him.

Moreover. He couldn't get Ashura's face out of his mind.

He couldn't forget the way Ashura _looked_ at him when the artist had…had…yeah.

Ashura had looked at Fai as though Fai had just shot him with a rifle. Right between the eyes. And honestly, Fai couldn't blame him. Fai couldn't even generate enough surprise in himself that Ashura had done what he did. Yuui might be shocked, but Fai wasn't. Not really. Everyone had a breaking point—it'd been stupid to think Ashura was any different. The artist was smart. Anyone who had half a brain would hate to have been kept in the dark as Ashura had.

Fai just wished Ashura would speak to him again. Was the artist really that angry? Was he so angry at Fai for not telling him or for being what he was? A whore. Which was he angry at? Or was it both? "Sorry…" Fai murmured to himself.

A knock on the door. "For what?"

The violinist sat up so swiftly that when he opened his eyes, purple spots dotted his line of sight. Which meant that purple spots dotted Ashura's face. The artist was sitting on the edge of Fai's bed, his dark hair curtaining one cheek. He was leaning in close, and Fai could feel his breath. "What…"

"Am I doing here?" Ashura finished, with a raised eyebrow. "Yuui let me in as he left. If it makes you feel safer, he did threaten to puncture my eyes with a piano bench if I did anything to you. But I assure you, I won't. If you want me to leave, however, I will."

Fai felt his breathing shorten. "Why did you…?"

Ashura smiled. "Because I'm a bastard. I'm a stupid, selfish bastard just like Seishiro. A bit psycho here and there, too, you know?" He glanced at his lap and back. "But I wanted to know. You should've told me."

The senior's eyes narrowed. "You're saying I should've told you that I'm a—"

"Look at us," Ashura said tonelessly, his face falling straight. "Look. At. Us. Look at your brother. Look at me. Look at Seishiro, Subaru, Kamui—look at all of us. Look at everyone. Do you honestly think that you're any worse than us? No offense intended, but don't flatter yourself. You're forced to be a whore. Us? We do it for _fun_." At that, even Fai had to break a smile. "Which do you honestly think is worse in terms of morals and shit? What could we have possibly hated you for? Did you really think at all?"

"No," Fai snorted in a whisper. "I didn't even consider. It's not something you brag about, y'know. Having a psychotic doctor-slash-pimp as your adopted guardian." His eyes went into blue slits. "Besides, it's not like Yuui and I haven't tried before. We tried once. We tried twice. We tried so many times. Kyle always won."

Ashura watched him. Fai met the artist's eyes again. It was slow. It was hesitant, and uneven, but it was gradual and steady. They leaned in carefully, toward each other—Ashura's hand on Fai's cheek, Fai's fingers on Ashura's shoulder. And their lips on each other's. Ashura pressed his forehead against Fai's bangs. "Not this time."

"I'm not trying. It won't make a difference."

"This time it will."

Fai raised his head. "Ashura…what exactly are you—"

"I'm breaking you out. You, and Yuui. Soon."

* * *

_A/N: I'm sorry if that kind of sucked, but I'm sick (again) and I have to keep blowing my nose every few seconds unless I want my shorts soaked with snot. And that tires you out once you've done it for three days straight, so thus, you have to go to bed early, which cuts out primeKuroFaiwritingtime. It also clouds your head from thinking straight, but I'm plodding through. Things just might be a little slower. Also, I'm not very good at writing Ashura, so that's why the last scene sucked epically. Plus, we just finished Romeo and Juliet in lit class, and I'm trying to get image of Leonard Whiting in tights from my head. Kuro-tan in tights might suit me more. And our teacher totally cut out the sex scene. Which was crap. But on the bright side, I get to write a poem summarizing the stupid drama. Ain't that great? AND it's due on Monday. *headdesk*_

_Reminder: the OOC lasts only until I'm healthy again._


	12. Bastard

Chapter Eleven: Bastard

Yuui opened the door and smiled. He leaned in the doorway, and waited, only moments, for Kamui to rouse. The writer blinked sleepily from the bed, and it took just one glance for those eyes to shoot open. Kamui put a finger to his lips, and untangled himself out of Fuuma's naked arms. Yuui watched with amusement as the writer stumbled naked out of the bed, and hastily slipped on the signature, oversized sweater—only this time, it looked frighteningly similar to the sweatshirts Maikeru's soccer team wore.

The pianist stepped back as Kamui came out, and closed the door softly behind them. The writer leaned on the door and shrugged wearily. "What do you need?"

Yuui bit his lip, looked down, and then looked back up. "My friend." He stared into Kamui's eyes fiercely. "I'm sorry." It was difficult, but he held the gaze there—right there—firm. Kamui stared back, almost emptily. They stayed like that for a while—just staring at the other.

Kamui took a deep breath. He stepped forward, one hand up to Yuui's hair. "I know." He kissed the pianist. "I'm sorry, too. You know." He sighed and raised an eyebrow. "For Ashura."

Yuui shook his head, attempting a laugh—and failing quite royally. "It doesn't matter. I don't care." Kamui raised the other eyebrow. "Well, all right. But you seem to be getting along fine—enough for the rest of us who're getting umbrellas up the ass by life." The musician gestured at the door behind the journalist.

Kamui glanced over his shoulder briefly. "Yeah. He's a maniac."

"He's a pretty hot maniac." Yuui tugged at the drawstrings of Kamui's supposedly borrowed sweatshirt.

"Isn't he?" Kamui put his hands into the sweatshirt's pockets. "I've been meaning to ask you. Have you talked to Subaru at all lately? He's been avoiding me like the plague, and it's starting to get weird. Weirder than usual, I mean. I knew he's been mad at me for a while now, but he seems…worse. He keeps driving up to meet the Maestro bastard—which he always used to do—but when he comes home…I don't know."

Yuui smiled. "I think we've all got a lot of problems that seem weird. At least Seishiro isn't pushing Subaru away, anymore, right? Maybe it means that they're finally getting something done besides your brother's ass. Maybe Seishiro's…dare I say it, changed."

Kamui returned his gaze doubtfully. "Or maybe Mioru's decided to become a priest."

Yuui laughed. "Maybe, yeah."

There was a loud thump and break from the other side of the door. Kamui glanced behind himself wearily and Yuui arched both eyebrows in higher amusement. "Well," Kamui said dryly, "Looks like my sleeping beauty's awaken. Better make sure he doesn't…I dunno, destroy my room in a fit of horniness or something."

Yuui was already halfway toward the stairs. He looked back at the writer, the large, gray-blue eyes watching him solemnly. The musician smiled back. "Love you, K."

Kamui raised a hand. "Love you, Y."

* * *

Subaru stumbled into the bathroom, and as his hands and knees collided against the stone tiles, he heard the door behind him slam shut, and crackling noise that alerted him it'd also been locked from the outside. He fell into a clumsy sitting position, leaning against the edge of the bathtub, green eyes watching the closed door vaguely. He curled his naked body inward and rested his head softly on his knees. There was no point in crying anymore—by now, all of Subaru's tears had been used up. Dry. By now Subaru no longer felt like crying.

He breathed in and out, examining the fresh cuts on his stomach from being pressed into a wall that was covered with picture frames and numerous other edged hangings; examined the bruises on his back from being flipped and pounded into a desk; examined the scratches and bites on his shoulders and neck and arms. And of course, there was still that long shallow stubborn scar that went from his right shoulder to the left of his waist. The scar was now officially three months old. The scar that'd nobody had yet seen except for the one holding it and the one who'd caused it.

The trumpeter lifted himself slightly from the ground, just enough to look at that spot beneath his back and between his thighs. He shut his eyes immediately at the sight. His head turned to one side, and when he exhaled, there was the softest moan tainting it. Subaru raised his eyes heavily. What was he doing? Why was he still here? He put his face in his hands. It was clearer with every visit that Seishiro didn't love him—clearer still that the conductor absolutely hated him.

But yet, Subaru was _here_. He was here because Seishiro continued to open his door to him, and as long as the Maestro did that, Subaru couldn't stop thinking—he couldn't stop thinking about what it meant. If you truly hated someone, wouldn't you avoid them, cast your eyes away from them, as much as you could? Why would you welcome someone into your bed if you hated them?

In a way, Subaru wished that Seishiro would slam that door in his face. Then, Subaru wouldn't keep driving up. Subaru wouldn't keep doing this to himself. Subaru could let go of Seishiro. Subaru could heal. Or maybe this was how much Seishiro really hated Subaru. He hated Subaru so much that passive hate wasn't enough—he had to literally hate Subaru into mental and physical destruction.

The trumpeter slicked back his sweat-dampened hair. Today had been one of the bad days. Seishiro had done it quick and sloppy and rough and hard—the conductor seemed more stressed than ever, and Subaru couldn't quite figure out why, except for the last few words Seishiro had smiled out coldly as he shoved and locked Subaru into the bathroom, "I'm having a guest."

Ah. So that'd been it.

He coughed, clearing his throat, and then wetted his lips, swallowing. Something behind his eyes pounded and he knew that he'd end up with a headache one way or another before the day ended. He'd have to keep his wits about him if he was going to drive back in the storm that he knew was scheduled to take place soon. Having the usual driver he shared with Kamui pick him up was out of question—Kamui would find out that way. No one, absolutely no one, could know what Subaru did every single day after school.

He wondered how long Seishiro would be entertaining the guest and how long the Maestro would keep him locked up in here. He'd have to be let out soon if he was going to make it home, and more importantly, Subaru's clothes were still in the main room. There were no towels on the bathroom shelves, either.

Just as Subaru made to start the routine of cleaning himself up and masking his scars with the usual mix of concealer that he'd gotten sent from Yuuko, he heard voices. Seishiro's voice—welcoming and warm—and a girl's voice. He listened closely, expecting them to immediately begin in the bed. But…it didn't seem like that was what she was for. It seemed as though…Seishiro respected this person. Greatly. More talking—the girl was laughing now, and Seishiro was talking louder. Or were they just…getting closer to the bathroom door?

Now they were close enough for Subaru to hear.

"Don't—there's nothing in there. Do you not hear yourself? You're insisting on inspecting my bathroom, which I'm sure is a perfectly normal bachelor college student's bathroom, albeit neater and cleaner and not filled with drugs." Seishiro's voice.

"Oh, shut up!" The girl's voice. "And I'm sure you've got some crack or MDA or something in here. 'Sides, what's up yours? Usually, you wouldn't give a damn about someone inspecting your bathroom. You'd usually get off on it."

"Don't be disgusting."

"You shouldn't call a lady disgusting."

"My apologies." Sarcasm. "But really."

"No. If you're so insistent that I don't look, then I'll definitely look. What, are you keeping some hot hustler locked up in there or something? How much did you pay for him?" A giggle. "You can walk on the streets and sigh, 'I'm so horny' and boys will line up for you. You're ridiculous and you know you don't—"

The doorknob flicked back and forth; Subaru stiffened.

"Hold up. Why's it locked?" It flicked again. "Moreover, why's it locked from the _outside_, Seishiro?"

Subaru's breath had become so shallow it was nearly nonexistent altogether. There was a pregnant pause and the doorknob stopped moving. It seemed like the longest silence as Subaru dared not to make a single move. The girl's voice spoke again, this time dead solemn. "You didn't—"

There was a loud, significant click, and the door opened, swinging with enough force to hit the wall. The girl that stood in the doorway stared down at Subaru with familiar—so familiar—emerald eyes. It was almost like looking into a reflection—almost. She had dark, stick-straight pixie hair that fell to just below her chin, slanting up toward the nape of her neck. She was pretty enough, but it was her clothes that truly made Subaru stare—and he'd seen Tomoyo Daidoji's designs. But these…nothing compared to an outfit like this.

"My God," she whispered, staring right back at the naked trumpeter. Seishiro, behind her, had on the most immaculately expressionless face Subaru had ever seen him wear. "He…he's not a—"

"You know who he is, Hokuto."

The girl, Hokuto, raised her eyebrows. "Well…yes. Isn't he…isn't he one of the Sumeragi boys? The…the trumpet one…right? Seishiro…what the _hell_ is he doing locked naked in your bathroom?" She stared at the conductor for one long minute. "Please tell me…tell me you didn't…" A cross between a smile and a scowl appeared on her face. "You didn't…fuck him…_did_ you?"

When he didn't answer, she walked forward in a sort of determined manner and knelt before Subaru. She smiled. "Hokuto Monou. I'm this bastard conductor's cousin. Maybe you met my sister, Kotori—she was Kamui's guide? We're twins. If you're the trumpeter, then you're—"

"Subaru," he filled in hoarsely. "Yeah."

Her smile broadened. "You're lovely."

He blinked, immensely aware of the fact that he was naked; part of him wanted to curl his legs up, but he thought that that would only alert her of the fact that he was extremely naked—well, more than she'd already been, anyhow. She laughed a little, and held out her hand. "I like you."

Subaru blinked again, his eyebrows gather up at the center. He glanced down at the proffered hand and his expression furrowed slightly in bemusement. When he still didn't quite figure out what to do with it, Hokuto promptly spun around on her knees and faced Seishiro. "You're an idiot." The trumpeter saw the Maestro's eyebrows shoot up. Seishiro smiled expectantly.

"How so?"

She simply continued to look at him simply. "You're such an idiot." She turned back to Subaru and smiled again, taking one of his hands, that'd otherwise been limply lying against his thighs. "C'mon, we'll get you cleaned up and then I'll drive you home. It's the least I can do since my cousin's such a bastard."

Seishiro watched Subaru slowly take Hokuto's hand. He watched only so far until his cousin pointedly glared at him to get out. Turning on his heel, he let his smile fade away as he retreated into the main room, collapsing onto a chair and taking out the fattest joint in his pockets. He leaned back, closing his eyes after lighting the joint, and placing it between his lips.

Behind his eyelids, a mental slideshow of every single one of Subaru's emotions played. Every single one from start to finish—from the first time Seishiro had ever laid eyes on him, to the expression the trumpeter wore just seconds ago. Seishiro had always loved Subaru's expressions. Well, he could say that he'd always loved Subaru's expressions, but if he were to be truthful—

Then he'd say that he loved it when Subaru laughed. He loved when Subaru was laughing, pink lips open wide, eyes closed up—and then in the aftermath of the laugh, when the small tongue would flicker out as his mouth closed, and the green eyes would open again, bright, brighter and brightest.

The Maestro didn't believe in love at first sight. He still didn't believe in love at first sight, and he knew that he never would because there was nothing to believe in. First sight was what pulled you in to someone—it didn't necessarily guarantee that you'd fall in love with them, but for some people, it did. The first time Seishiro had ever seen Subaru was when the conductor was walking past with Fuuma—forced to pick him up because his parents were jet setting in Africa.

This seventh-grader had had these bright, bright green eyes staring straight ahead, his lips pursed around the silver mouthpiece of his trumpet. And when the trumpet went down and this insignificant seventh grader raised his head and laughed along with his twin, and two other beautiful golden-haired seventh graders, Seishiro wanted all four of them. But he wanted that perfect and delicious and completely insignificant seventh-grader with the bright green eyes most of all.

Seishiro had picked up his little brother from school every day since.

Subaru had been laughing when Seishiro had first lain eyes on him. Subaru had laughed when Seishiro had first kissed him. Subaru had laughed when they'd first had sex. Subaru had always laughed—always smiled. It wasn't just the sound of his laugh—it was the way the laugh went all the way into those green eyes. Those bright, perfect, green eyes. Subaru was one of those few people who could laugh without making a sound. He could laugh with just his eyes.

Now. Seishiro couldn't even recall the last time he'd seen Subaru laugh like that. Much less the last time he was the one who'd made Subaru laugh. It'd been so long ago. Over a year. Perhaps even over two years.

"Hey."

Seishiro glanced up. Hokuto stood before him, one hand on the conductor's knee. "I'm not driving him home, you know," she continued. "It's pouring like mad, and I don't think he should go home, anyhow. He's staying here for the night." When he opened his mouth to object with one or more infuriatingly logical reasons, she said, "You won't have any classes this week anyway, and you know that. It's off for all in the musical department."

He merely smiled up at her.

"No sex," Hokuto said, her voice sad. "Please. I know you love him, and you know it, too. The only person who doesn't is him. He can't take any more, Seishiro, and I don't just mean his heart. Any harder and you would've been in some real deep crap. If Satsuki were here, she'd kill you. So please. Let him sleep. Touch him. Kiss him. Just don't hurt him."

The smile didn't move.

"I'm serious." She leant down and kissed his cheek. "I've got something to give to that boy, so make sure he doesn't leave to early tomorrow, all right? Tell him to come to my dorm before he does."

"Good night, dear cousin."

She tossed him a smile and a Look as she closed the door behind her with a clack of finality. He watched after her for some time before finally getting up and walking to the bathroom.

Subaru was sitting atop the closed toilet seat. There was a towel lightly thrown over his shoulders, but otherwise, he was dripping wet and still naked—albeit clean and obviously showered. His head was bowed and his hands were clasped so tightly, Seishiro could see the whitened knuckles and the trembling arms. The conductor knelt down in front of the trumpeter. He placed on hand carefully and slowly on Subaru's knee. "Time to wake up."

The boy's form jerked. His unsleeping eyes opened and he stared painfully back at Seishiro. With those eyes. Those huge, green, perfect eyes. Those huge, green, perfect eyes that were now shattered into dullness—bright, still, but not bright with laughter. Bright with hurt. Bright with age. Seishiro couldn't tell if the rivulets streaming down Subaru's face were tears or water from the shower. He didn't want to know. "Oh." Subaru coughed slightly. "Sorry." His voice was so soft. Hoarse. "I wasn't sleeping."

"I know." Seishiro smiled an odd smile; a change from the usual briskly business ones he doled out—from whom else had the Fluorite twins learned to customize their masks so beautifully? The Maestro had been their mentor, after all. Subaru's limbs were limp and wet and cold. As Seishiro's hand rode from the trumpeter's knee to his thigh, Subaru flinched, and his eyes narrowed. Seishiro suppressed his grimace, sighing into a thicker smile—hide and hide and hide and hide and run. "C'mon. Dry up. You can borrow my clothes for the night. I'll give you yours back to wear tomorrow."

Subaru looked up so fast that Seishiro ended up with a few droplets of water flicked into his eye. But he'd rather that the water blind him than having to look at Subaru's expression—an expression of surprise; surprise and hurt and pain and incredulity and anger and complete and utter adoring love. "I'm not letting you drive in this," Seishiro said, nodding his head to the background rumble of thunder and lighting and pounding rain. "Neither is Hokuto. If she drove, your car would be left here."

Seishiro wished Subaru would just snap out of the stupor and dry himself, that way the conductor could find a pair of pajamas, throw them at the trumpeter and be done with him for the night. He didn't want to have to look into Subaru's face any longer. It hurt too much. It made Seishiro feel like the bastard he knew he was. Subaru made him feel like a bastard when no one else could. Subaru made him angry. Subaru made him furious. Subaru made him want to cry. Subaru made him frustrated. Subaru made him feel too much all at once. Subaru made him happy. Made him laugh. Made him smile and smile for himself.

"You do know how to dry yourself, right?" Seishiro said, holding up a part of the towel. "I've only ever babysat Fuuma once, and look how he turned out." Subaru laughed shakily, still looking sadly and resignedly down at his lap—at his tightly clasped hands. Seishiro wanted to fucking punch the trumpeter and then shoot himself. He'd never before wanted to hurt someone—hurt himself—so badly.

_This _was precisely why he was so angry with Subaru. Seishiro didn't want to feel like this. He didn't want to feel out of control. He didn't want to feel emotions that made no sense. Did it make sense to be angry with someone who makes you smile and laugh? No. Did it make sense to be frustrated with someone who you kissed? No. Did it make sense to lust for someone in one moment and be irritated with them in the next? No. Did it make sense for someone to make you want to laugh and cry all at once? No.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Which was why unless it was between blood—between family—Seishiro hated love. Love between two people who had no reason to be with one another other than some supposed, imagined feeling greater than any other was ridiculous and senseless. And yet—

That laugh—that shaky, half-lived laugh—as the closest thing Seishiro had seen emit from Subaru that'd even resembled what this boy had once been, had shaken the Maestro. Fucking frightened him. Seishiro had taken and ruined and broken and mangled and killed that once laughing, smiling, living, breathing, loving green-eyed boy.

An infinitesimal smile stayed on Subaru's lips as he took the towel from around his shoulders, involuntarily shivering as the cold air hit his wet body. "Yeah," he said, with another quiet, half-laugh. "I know." As Seishiro dipped down just low enough to gauge Subaru's next blasted, damned expression, he couldn't believe what he saw. Or maybe he could very well believe it, but he just didn't want to. Locked somewhere in the midst of that bright, dull, green—was fear. Subaru was _afraid_ of Seishiro.

You only feared someone you didn't trust.

Both musicians stood up; and while Seishiro watched Subaru dry himself, the conductor knew that this was all his doing. He'd exploited Subaru's trust and perfection and laugh and those green, green eyes and love and hope and innocence and everything. He'd ruined Subaru. Subaru was ruined. And Seishiro was a real fucking bastard to only come up with this when it was too late.

Seishiro took the towel slowly out of Subaru's hands mid-movement. The surprise was so thick that the trumpeter made a sound that came quite deliciously and adorably close to a squeak. Seishiro smiled, laughing just beneath his breath, as he plopped the towel over Subaru's damp hair, ruffling it through the strands. "What…?"

"You were taking too long," Seishiro said, taking Subaru in his towel-covered hands—wet hair and all—and kissed him promptly on the mouth, his tongue running along the trumpeter's bottom lip. It was so easy, just like this, to fall back into their old patterns. It was so easy to forget that everything had happened the way it had.

But Seishiro was a bastard. He wasn't stupid. For Subaru to disregard and forgive what Seishiro had done to him for the past three months, he had to either be retarded, insane, stupid as shit, mindless, mentally deranged, or a complete dipshit.

Or in love.

Subaru stared up at Seishiro with a look in his eyes that made the conductor never want to underestimate clichéd, sappy love sayings in romance novels every again—because it was indeed possible for a heartache to literally make you feel like you were going to die, just as it was extremely so very real to feel your heart splitting in two, right down the fissure line. Because despite everything, Subaru still looked at Seishiro as though the conductor had hung the moon—as though this was all somehow Subaru's fault, and not Seishiro's.

Seishiro tossed the towel into the hamper and placed his hand lightly on Subaru's bare back. "Come on. You need to get in some clothes before you catch a cold and Kamui throws a harpoon through my head." He refrained from mentioning how they both knew that if Kamui knew how Seishiro had been treating Subaru, Kamui would do a lot worse than just a harpoon through the head. And of course, Seishiro knew he deserved it.

But that wasn't even close to what Seishiro hated about all of this. Seishiro hated more than anything else how Subaru shuddered every time the conductor touched him. Every time, it was as if Subaru thought Seishiro was going to hurt him—that Seishiro wouldn't touch him unless it was to cause him pain. Frankly…Seishiro couldn't blame him. Gone was the time when Subaru would've eased into the Maestro's touch. Everything was gone.

That time would never come back. But, Seishiro thought, as he watched Subaru slip into the t-shirt and flannel pants that he'd given to the trumpeter, even if that time couldn't be brought back, perhaps there was a way to keep Seishiro from hurting him any longer and from Subaru to seek out any more pain.

Subaru fell asleep the minute he touched the pillow. Seishiro was thankful that the trumpeter was so tired he didn't have a chance of asking the Maestro where he'd be sleeping if Subaru occupied the bed. Because truthfully, Seishiro didn't plan to sleep at all. No. Instead, he settled himself on the couch, all lights off, and lit his second joint in less than an hour. The only lights came from his eyes, the sparks from his joint, and the soft, nightlight from the open door of the bedroom. He watched the smoke spiral up in the blackness, and smiled. "Don't kill me, okay?" he said to the air.

He stood up eventually, and walked with a sort of heaviness into the bedroom, kneeling beside the sleeping form, and resting his elbows and chin so closely that he could feel the even breathing ghost over his nose and lips. He observed the closed eyelids, the soft line of the mouth, the strands of hair—still damp from the shower, the slight crease of expression. Subaru slept on his side, leaving one cheek exposed to the air. Seishiro smiled at the way the trumpeter's hands were curled like a child's—so close to his face and just over his chest. For protection. For warmth.

Seishiro bent a finger and stroked the exposed cheek once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Over and over again. It was soft. Warm. Still unmarred, unlike so many places on Subaru's body. "Why can't you hate me?" Softly spoken—almost mouthed, softer than a whisper. "It's not hard to hate me. If you hated me, you wouldn't have to hurt." Seishiro touched his lips to the corner of Subaru's cheekbone—just below his closed left eye. "Hate me, all right?" He sighed, with that same odd smile—a smile he'd never shown to any person, any being, living or otherwise, save for Subaru.

See, the thing about bastards that most people didn't know or didn't bother to find out was that they had feelings—bastards had hearts just as the rest of the more inoffensive population did. And Seishiro was no different. Seishiro certainly had a heart.

He caressed Subaru's cheek, dragging his fingers along the line of the cheekbone, up to the trumpeter's ear, to his temple—gently, gentler than a breeze. The Maestro straightened away from the bed, and brought himself to his feet, his eyes never straying from the laughing boy with bright green eyes. "I know it's a bit late." Seishiro smiled and shut his eyes against the dark. "I know I've had a fucking million times to say it and I never do. But I love you. 'Kay? Love you, Subaru."

Bastards had hearts—bastards could feel. Bastards could love.

They just made sure the ones they loved never knew it.

Otherwise, they wouldn't be bastards, now would they?

But as Seishiro was finding out, the term bastard was highly synonymous with the word coward.

* * *

_A/N: Lovely chapter title, isn't it? Anyway, this was a big one, mostly to make up for the fact that my brain's been stoppered with rabid plot bunnies. But I called the plumber a few days ago, and all's well again. And 'sides, Seishiro's the bastard we all love to hate and hate to love. And Subaru needs a hug--and a baseball bat with which to bash Seishiro's head. The whole Yuui and Kamui thing at the beginning was like a tack-on. I didn't know what to do with it, since it was too short to be a chapter on its own, but it had to be in there somewhere. Well, in any case, next chapter we'll see W and D, since they've been missing so long that I almost forgot what happened last with them. Mostly, I just need to get them in since they're "story" ends in Secrets, and because I'm trying to lure TheRecorder back into reviewing with free Donuts. _

_Anyhoo, I'm trying my best to keep Seishiro IC, so if my attempts fail, I'll give you a cupcake, and you can teach Subaru how to gently decapitate the Maestro. _


	13. Monotony

Chapter Twelve: Monotony

Doumeki, no matter what sort of aura he gave off, was a considerably patient person. He was patient when it came to watching grass grow, and he was patient when it came to the results of certain experiments, one of them being the pursuit of the answer as to whether a soccer ball bruised Mioru's face better on the left side or on the right.

But to a certain extent, everyone, even Doumeki, lost patience. It wasn't any scientific theory or law, it was just the simple fact that humans weren't perfect, and even flawless beings didn't have everlasting patience, because that was just ridiculous. With never-ending patience, neither humans nor divine beings would get anything done and they'd all just be sitting around _patiently_ waiting.

Meaning that after about an hour of sitting on a chair backwards, his legs straddling the wood, chin resting on his arms and eyes set forward and bored at the back of Watanuki's bowed, studying head, Doumeki had had just about enough. He slowly stood, silently pushing the chair to the side, and turning the goalie to face him on the revolving chair. The sophomore's hands gripped the edge of the table, trapping Watanuki.

As Doumeki removed Watanuki's glasses, the junior raised his eyebrows and scowled. "I'm not done yet. I've still got three more practice tests to run, and I have to complete this essay."

"I'm not done either," Doumeki raised his eyebrows mockingly.

"Shut up and go home."

"No."

"Shut up and go sit."

"Been doing that for an hour."

"Fine. What do you want to do?" Doumeki opened his mouth. "Besides me," Watanuki interrupted him swiftly. "Now give me back my glasses."

Doumeki continued to twirl them securely in one hand, possible situations and scenarios racing through his mind. In short, see, the trick was to get Watanuki horny real quick and real fast and real _well_. "Fine." He slipped the spectacles back on, fingertips brushing with the sides of Watanuki's ears. Doumeki retreated to Watanuki's bed and bounced atop it casually, stretching out on his back and resting his head in his arms.

"Fine?" Watanuki blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Just like that."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

Doumeki raised his eyebrows once.

Watanuki scowled, his mouth tightening stubbornly. "Ah, fine, whatever," he snapped, whirling around in his seat and turning his back to the forward. Doumeki simply shrugged to himself and closed his eyes. He probably wasn't going to fall asleep, but even if he did, he already knew what was going to happen. There was no point in agitating himself.

Agitation, however, was still present in the room, even if not within Doumeki. Watanuki was gripping his pencil so tightly it was about to break in his fist. The SATs were looming closer and closer, and unlike Doumeki, Watanuki wasn't a legacy. He'd have to work to get to Sabakurein. And he knew that it was just his luck that the year he was a junior, the infamous twins were seniors. Everyone knew that the Sumeragi and Fluorite twins together graduating from Fuki was equal to the Maestro's graduation year.

There would be parties and bashes and balls and galas and banquets and everything imaginable to celebrate their send-off—even months from the actual date—and it was just Watanuki's luck that he'd have to attend all of them while simultaneously studying for the apocalyptic test of doom that he would ultimately fail as there was no way possible he'd pass.

He turned around to face Doumeki and felt the blood drain from his face.

Doumeki's eyes were open just slightly, just enough to have the pupils in view. His hands were behind his head, the position stretching his shirt up high enough to put a tantalizing inch of skin between the low waistband of his shorts and the hem of his t-shirt. His legs were propped up, knees in the air, and spread to the sides of the bed, straining the crotch of his jeans. The sophomore's dark hair was ruffled all over the pillow, and the entire picture looked deliciously ruffled and rumpled and tousled and messy and sleepy and lazy and perfect and—

Watanuki stabbed his pencil into the textbook, shoved his chair back, stood up and crossed over to the bed. His scowl was more adamant than ever now, as he took off his glasses, set them on the nightstand, and straddled Doumeki's waist. He held himself up with his arms, face closely aligned with the forward's. "You're a conniving bastard," he said, his fingers unbuttoning and unzipping Doumeki's jeans.

Doumeki's eyebrows went up. Well, he couldn't deny it. But he could add to that sentiment, as it wasn't really complete. Doumeki might be a conniving bastard. But he was a _patient_ conniving bastard. Patience made conniving easier.

* * *

Sakura giggled. And giggled. And giggled. And—

Fuuka glanced up and winced, his ears reddening quite adorably, in the gymnast's opinion. He brought himself up on his elbows and looked at her in bemusement and slight embarrassment. "What?" Sakura propped her own self up and looked down at him, at his place between her spread bare thighs, and she burst out laughing again. "What?" He was starting to sound really panicked, and that was just too…cute.

"It tickles," she giggled. "Your tongue." Just as Fuuka began to look as though he was about to keel over dead from mortification, Sakura switched around, kneeling in front of him and kissed him on the lips. "It feels nice, though, so it's okay. I think your fingers were better. Do that instead."

He kissed her back again, one hand between her shoulder blades, the heat of his skin seeping through her thin camisole. The hand guided her back down onto the bed, and she felt his other hand lightly trailing down along the inside of her thigh, once again returning to that spot. She stared at the ceiling, waiting until she felt his fingers wiggle inside of her. Sakura closed her eyes, breathing in and out.

She felt that perfect, flawless clenching sensation that her muscles instinctively made as his fingers went in and out and in and out. Her nails dug into the bed and her toes curled into the mattress. She opened her eyes blearily to the warm earthy brown of Fuuka's gaze. He smiled and leaned in to kiss her again. "Almost," he whispered, closing his eyes against her hair.

As his free hand drifted to her waist, Sakura gasped, head thrown back. All in one split second, her body fell back against the bed and she had to marvel at the fact that that must have been the fastest one yet. Not something quite to be proud of. She frowned inwardly. Fuuka rolled off from her and lay by her side, looking up at the ceiling with her. "SATs are coming up," he said.

"Yeah. Are you studying?"

"Kind of." He glanced at her. "Where do you wanna go?"

She shrugged. "Kuriakiri, I guess. That's where Touya is." She found his hand and threaded their fingers through.

"Oh." He clasped her hand and held their intertwined fingers to the light.

"Where do you want to go?"

Fuuka tilted his head against the pillow and sighed. "I don't really know. Akamizu has the best martial arts team, so I might go there. I just…" He paused, biting his lip. "I'm not sure," he continued slowly, "what I'm even doing."

Sakura sat up and turned around, facing him, her eyebrows furrowing together. "What d'you mean?" She withdrew her hand and touched his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "We're going to college, that's what we're doing."

He sat up as well, taking a deep breath. "I know." Fuuka raised his eyes to meet hers. "But…haven't…I…" He frowned to himself for a bit, as if struggling with his words. "When you spend a year—two years—away from all this," he shrugged and waved his hand around the room, gesturing, "and you really think…you start to not want to go back."

"What d'you mean?" Sakura asked again. She was starting to get extremely confused and a tiny part of her thought she might even be scared. She frowned and leaned forward, listening to his slow, hesitant words.

He looked into his lap and then looked back up at her. "Haven't you ever felt that our whole lives are planned out for us? Like, there's no middle ground? Just look around," he said quietly, "there're only extremes. I'm not saying that I don't like everyone; it's just that you see the scholarship students who everyone hates just because they worked to get here and not on Daddy's money. And then you see…well…you see Yuui Fluorite and Seishiro Sakurazuka who everyone worships—literally—like gods because they lost their virginity before they learned how to divide fractions."

Sakura would be lying if she said she wasn't shocked at Fuuka's quiet, almost pained explanation. But she'd also be lying if she said she didn't agree. She saw the girls' end of the socialite stick—the Daidoji sisters. Tomoyo was still all right, but Amaterasu and Souma were out of control and completely out of bounds. But girls were different from boys, meaning Fuuka saw worse every day. "What does that have to do with us?" she asked softly.

"We're _all_ trapped," he said, tightening his hands into fists and clasping them together. "We're all compelled to dance however Fluorite and Sakurazuka and all those others at the very, very top want us to. We're just the audience, and everything else—all other eyes are on them. Always on them. It…it makes some students—who want what they have, want _it_—makes them go to extremes to try and achieve it, and they only fall and get pushed down."

"Because there's no room for them," Sakura finished, looking steadily and determinedly into his eyes. "Because we hate anything that's new and foreign and different. Because we'll always be afraid of what we don't know and we'll always listen to labels."

Fuuka gave a small smile. "Well, yeah. For example, I'm the druggie—you shouldn't get close to me, or else I'll drown you in my web of crystalline darkness." Sakura laughed and jumped him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"That's mean. You're not a druggie. And crystalline darkness would be flattering yourself." She poked his eyelid and giggled as he pushed her hand away.

"And what're you?" He rolled over on top of her back and grabbed her around the stomach. Sakura shrieked, and burst out laughing. "The pure gymnast virgin, protected by her big, strong brother who'll kick a soccer ball into the face of anyone who tries to deflower her?"

She opened her mouth indignantly, but a grin was big on her lips. Sakura slapped him on the arm, but he still didn't let go. "Shut up. And if that was true, your face would be long gone by now because I'm so pure." As if to emphasize her point, she grasped the crotch of Fuuka's jeans; he gasped, releasing her. She laughed all over again, watching him pretend to scowl at her. "C'mon, stop being mean. Hand me my—" she pointed.

He tossed the gymnast her panties—slung over on his nightstand. She jumped onto the floor and slipped them on. "So, are you going to the Maestro's party this weekend? He's coming back for Thanksgiving break." Sakura turned and leaned against the bed, guiding his hands around her waist. She pursed her lips to the side thoughtfully.

"I guess I should go. I mean, didn't you hear that this time around he's bringing all of the other Sacreds?" Sakura widened her eyes. "The ones that're graduating this year, y'know, so Fai and Yuui and Subaru can be nominated? Since Kamui's already inducted and all."

"I'm not going," Fuuka said, shrugging.

Her eyebrows gathered up at the center. "How come? It'll be fun."

"It'll just be more of the same." He looked at her. "I've got to catch up with homework and stuff, anyway. You can go ahead." He smiled. "Tell me all about it afterward."

She kissed his nose, making him flame red. "Fine. But if you're homework isn't done when I get back, you're in huge trouble."

"How huge?"

"You aren't getting any for two weeks."

"Harsh."

"Deal."

* * *

Subaru sat down at his desk, and flicked on the light. Normally, there would be music scores covering the surface, pencils littering the pages, eraser stubs rolling around in the corners, but nowadays it was starkly empty—clean. He hadn't even used his desk for anything but homework in over three months. He would use it now, though. The trumpeter set his elbows on the edge and put the envelope to eye level. It was a thicker envelope than he thought a task would be. That only told him that he must be one of the more unfortunate ones.

He sighed, and dug his fingers beneath the flap, cutting it open and pouring out the contents. In all, there was a total of one actual letter, one sticky note and one mini calendar sort of page. He picked up the letter and unfolded it, his green eyes flashing across the words swiftly and efficiently. As he went, he felt his breathing escalate. No way. There was no way he could and there was no way he was about to do any of this insanity. There had to be something against doing this sort of thing as a task, and better yet, assigning it.

Stonily, he gingerly picked up the mini calendar page—spanning across the next month—and straightened it against the flat surface of his desk. His fingers traced the words, but his mind didn't accept anything that he was reading.

Stilling, he went back to the letter and reread it. Again. And again. And again. And again. Then, he went to the sticky note and read the names sprawled over the small piece of paper. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, one of his hands subconsciously going to his shoulder, moving across his body, tracing the scar than ran along beneath his clothes. There was a time when he would've thought nothing could be worse than what he was currently experiencing.

After reading this, however, he had a feeling that it could get far more terrible. But would he risk it? Not that, by now, there was anything to risk at all. If anything, he might as well do this now. Maybe…maybe Hokuto would be right with what she wrote in her letter. Just maybe. And if all else failed, nothing could be worse than doing nothing. He had to try something. If not to make it better, at least to have some change. Whether good or bad, change was change, and right now, Subaru would welcome any.

He folded up the letter, the schedule and the sticky note—tucking them neatly back into the wide envelope. Come the Maestro's homecoming for Thanksgiving party, Subaru would begin his task.

* * *

_A/N: I just want to say that although I've made no plot changes, I've made a few development changes, and since those changes require more drama, I think you'll be happier with the outcome. But the drama is going to be a tad...well...I don't know how to describe it. Wait, no, yeah I do. I guess I'll just say that there's about to be a whole lot of cheating going around. Plenty of, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," kind of deal, only you have to replace woman with "gay". Anyhow, I'm graduating from eighth grade in two days, so in two days I'll be able to write like a bunny. _


	14. Pumpkin Eater

Chapter Thirteen: Pumpkin Eater

It was quite a known fact, Watanuki thought as he cautiously took another sip out of his glass, that aside from being obvious, Fai Fluorite also had to be bipolar. It'd been less than three days since the musician had been spotted with his fair head down, moping incessantly. And now, at the Maestro's house party tonight, he was dancing on the tables, drink in hand, fair head tossing to the music, skin rather than shirt.

And when Ashura Ou climbed on to the table and grabbed Fai's waist, spinning the violinist round to kiss him upon the lips, it reminded Watanuki highly of a wolf marking his territory. But then again, Watanuki also suspected that there had been something going on amidst the Circus that was setting them into high gear, and apparently, that same "something" had been solved and this was their victory night.

The entire house was filled with an uproar of music—booming and blaring from the sound systems, laughing—flirting and giggling from both girls and boys, clinking—crashing and banging, falling from tables and shelves and just adding to a mess that was almost mandatory from a teenage house party. And although no one amidst the dancing, drinking, reveling socialites and celebutantes would dare admit it, even Watanuki noticed the fact that the host himself wasn't in his best of moods tonight.

The Maestro was looking more than a little murderous tonight, smiles and all precisely locked in, and thus, everyone seemed to be giving him a subconsciously wide berth, meaning Seishiro was encumbered infamously in what was known to be his mother's favorite white ottoman—the same ottoman that he had first publicly made-out with Subaru with years ago.

Watanuki would guess that the trumpeter was the main cause that the Maestro looked as if he would kill the first person that came within a two-meter radius. It wasn't the best-kept secret that no matter how much the Maestro might've been a socialite bad boy, he was nothing short of an idiot in love now. The only thing everyone needed to know now was what they always seemed to do behind the doors of Akamizu.

Well, not really. It was obvious what they did—but Watanuki wasn't stupid, and neither was the rest of the Circus's audience. They knew when something was amiss backstage. Especially when it concerned two of the main attractions. But the goalie knew it was none of his business—and unlike his peers, he knew that it was just better to stay out of the ring and keep your words to yourself. Doumeki never seemed to fail in this regard, and Watanuki was learning quickly just how the forward operated. Silent, sly, clever and swift. And more importantly: Simple.

* * *

Subaru slid away on the Town car's leather seat—away from Yuui, who was watching him with a curious little smile. "Okay," he said, the blue eyes scanning the trumpeter from head-to-toe in a way that Subaru not only found uncomfortable and frightening, but immensely violating. "So there are only two possible reasons why you would be wearing something like that out into the public." Yuui edged closer still, and Subaru slid away further still. "Either the apocalypse is approaching and you've decided to do what you want with the little life we all have left, or you're about to do something tonight that's going to make me extremely proud of you."

Subaru scooted away more.

"Which is it?"

"Could you…not ask me questions? I'm not Kamui."

"I know you're not. I know how Kamui's mind works. I don't know how yours does. Which means I have to ask you questions. So which is it?" Yuui smiled. He glanced out the window. "We're almost there—you better hurry and tell me."

"It's my task," Subaru said slowly. "I'm not allowed to."

With one tug and one twist, Yuui somehow managed to shove Subaru onto his back and roll atop of him, pinning the trumpeter's wrist to the car's seat. The strands of pale hair tickled Subaru's cheeks. "Ah. Then it's _not_ the apocalypse. That's good. I think it's about high time that you show the Maestro that he's not as hot as he thinks he is, and you're not a little ugly duckling."

Subaru stared. "But he _is_ as hot as he thinks he is."

"True," Yuui conceded. "But he doesn't need to know that. And plus, he may be gorgeous, but so are you." He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head. "You _know_ that."

The trumpeter's eyes went wide and his eyebrows curved up so high that Yuui laughed. Subaru laughed with him—a quieter laugh, a trembling laugh. He was nervous, and no amount of casual flirting with Yuui would abate that. He'd be lying if he said that he didn't know precisely how good-looking he was—just as the rest of them were. But good looks and sex didn't necessarily go hand in hand. And the person Hokuto had scheduled for tonight was a difficult one.

Once Yuui had quieted down, encumbered again in his own thoughts, Subaru lowered his eyes, going over the clothes he had dug out from the depths of his closet and winced at the sight. He was going to be so dead it wasn't even funny. What the hell was he doing anyway? He wasn't Yuui and he wasn't Kamui and he wasn't Fai. And he doubted the latter two could even attempt to pull this off—they weren't stupid enough to try. Yuui definitely could, of course, since he was Yuui Fluorite—that was explanation enough.

But him? Subaru? Subaru Sumeragi?

Not even over his _own_ dead body.

* * *

Doumeki was horny to say the least. Watanuki was near where Ashura and Fai were more or less giving the entire house a striptease show. The bespectacled goalie didn't seem to be watching—rather, he seemed to be suspiciously eyeing where Seishiro sat in his dark, little corner, brooding with a smile. Ever since the one time last week at Watanuki's house, Doumeki hadn't gotten lucky any more. In fact, Watanuki had practically banned the forward from his house and from his body. At least until the SATs were over, so he'd said.

And not that he was resentful or anything, but he didn't think that Watanuki quite understood what he was saying. Perhaps, Watanuki didn't even know that no sex meant no relationship in the language socialites spoke. Maybe if it was someone like Yuui or the Maestro, no sex could still mean a relationship, but Watanuki wasn't. Doumeki was more or less free to do anything he pleased if he was heartless enough to. But he wasn't, so he wouldn't. Though he might want to clue Watanuki in.

The forward took another swig of the rather strange-tasting alcohol in his hand and frowned at the liquid. He wasn't even half sure this stuff was supposed to be drunk. Ah well. He leaned away from a high female celebutante's unintentional physical advance and watched as she fell flat on her face at his feet, snoring away. Doumeki shrugged and stepped away.

As he was walking around for a new corner to inhabit, the doors downstairs flung open, and a collective gasp went around the first floor. He walked to the nearest banister and peered down at who had just arrived. The front doors were flung open, and everyone standing in the foyer had shimmied back by at least five feet—staring at the newest arrivals.

Doumeki first narrowed his eyes to peer better through the lights and then drew his head back with his eyes twice their normal size. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph," he muttered to himself.

The two figures standing a few feet in from the doorway were Yuui Fluorite and Subaru Sumeragi. And while Yuui was dressed in his usual wear, black jeans and a black wife beater that fit him like a second skin, Subaru was wearing what was…not his usual wear and something that looked perhaps like most dangerous outfit known to gaykind.

Subaru Sumeragi was wearing _black leather_.

No. Not only black leather. But _tight black leather_. And it didn't fit him like a second skin. It might as well have been his skin. Yep. That tight.

And if Doumeki hadn't been too busy trying to get his mind working again, he would've been able to observe the way nearly every male down below had begun to squirm and turn away, leaving only females—who didn't have to be afraid of their lust physically showing itself—to ogle.

But Doumeki did manage to get his mind back into gear and when he did, Subaru and Yuui were still standing there, only now Subaru looked like he wanted nothing more than to die in a dark black hole, while Yuui was laughing beatifically. The trumpeter looked nothing short of positively terrified at the reaction he was receiving—not quite realizing that it wasn't a negative one. Neither moved until the pianist finally seemed to get bored of their audience's shock, and dragged Subaru away from the door.

* * *

Kamui had received more than just one scared glance as he approached Seishiro—the first person to approach the Maestro all night, aside from his own younger brother. And while Fuuma was duking it out with Syaoran about last night's scores, Kamui took the liberty of sneaking away and visiting the bane and love of his twin brother's existence.

He sat down on the edge of the armchair of Seishiro's seat, and nudged the Maestro's shoulder with his drink. "So, no Subaru?"

Seishiro smiled daggers up at him. "He said he'd be here."

Kamui threw his eyebrows up and absolutely laughed. "Oh. I love this. He's late? Are you pissed that you're darling Boy Blue might be blowing someone else's horn before he's going to blow yours? Seriously, when he gets here," Kamui looked up with his grin, "I'm going to—" He blinked at the sight his eyes had met and processed. "Holy fucking shit."

Seishiro continued to nurse his glass of scotch. "What?" he sighed in mock. "Is my darling little brother kissing someone else's ass? If so, I'm sure a bitch slap would entertain us all. Go ahead—I won't call the cops."

"Maybe, if you looked, you bastard," Kamui muttered, in a way that seemed to wish not to attract attention that they were speaking at all, "you would know. I think you'll like this—God, he's really gone insane now."

The Maestro sighed again, clunked his glass on the table and glanced up to where Kamui's eyes were staring.

Oh. Oh. _Oh_.

Fuck.

"Kamui," Seishiro continued quietly, as if about to inquire the writer about the going-ons at Fuki and other educational purposes, "why is your brother wearing black leather?"

"I—"

"And why are my guests staring at his posterior?"

"He's—"

"And _why_," Seishiro's smile was brighter than ever now, and about as dangerous as a hammerhead shark who'd gone without food for two weeks, "is he wearing _boots_?"

"I would answer if you'd stop interrupting me!" Kamui said, his face flaming red by merely looking at his twin. He looked directly into Seishiro's eyes—anywhere was better than looking at Subaru at the moment. "God, he needs to be sent into an asylum. Maybe give him the shock treatment, or something—he's lost his _mind_."

Seishiro was silent a moment. Then, "So what's the answer?"

The writer opened his mouth. He closed it. He glanced at the conductor. And shook his head.

"Nice answer. Eloquently put."

* * *

Subaru grasped the cold stone countertop of the bathroom sink and dared to look up at his reflection. He still couldn't bring himself to believe he even owned black leather. But he did—even if it was one of Yuui's most wayward birthday presents, it didn't erase the fact that Subaru Sumeragi owned black leather and was definitely going to hell because no self-respecting person should ever wear black leather in public, private, or just ever in general.

They just shouldn't.

Black leather should be illegal. Especially black leather that fit the way the leather Subaru wore did. It was just…guh.

But the more Subaru stared at himself, the more he had to admit. He had to admit that if he was being honest with himself, he would stop cringing, because he knew deep, deep, deep down somewhere in his frightened self that he did look good. Very good. Extremely and immensely and brilliantly good. But even so, Subaru didn't dare admit it to himself. This was Yuui's range of expertise, and Subaru was just completely and wholly lost—out of place.

He really didn't want to do this. The nervousness was getting to a point where he felt as though he might possibly puke. And that would just be fantastic, now wouldn't it?

The trumpeter stared at himself once again for another two minutes before shaking his head like a dog trying to dry itself. He ran a leather-gloved hand over his face and then kicked off his left boot. He turned it upside down and out onto his hand fell a small bag of already-rolled joints. His free hand went into his vest pocket and dug out a lighter.

When the smoke began to drift up, Subaru closed his eyes and inhaled. It made things a bit better, and he knew that if he got another five minutes with the drug, everything would be fine, he wouldn't puke, and he could go through with this. Maybe if he took a few drinks in afterward, it would be better still.

The green eyes opened and Subaru considered the ceiling. He had seen the way Seishiro's eyes and flickered towards him when he'd walked past—running, nearly, to the bathroom for cover from the awed and impressed eyes. He'd seen the expression in those eyes—the respect. It was almost frightening how by just dressing differently—albeit, differently to an extreme—Seishiro looked at him as though they were on equal footing, on an equal level. With desire, rather than disgust. With lust, rather loathing.

Why couldn't Seishiro look at him like that when Subaru was Subaru?

The trumpeter laughed a little bit. Of course Seishiro wouldn't look at him that way normally. Seishiro didn't want boring, plain, ordinary Subaru—the Maestro didn't want boring, plain, ordinary anything. The conductor wanted intriguing and seductive and lustrous and impulsive and compelling—like Yuui and Fai and Kamui.

He paused and pulled out the joint—the light had gone out. He relit it and replaced it between his lips. Subaru was going to need a lot more than that if he was going to get through this night with his sanity intact.

* * *

If you'd told Doumeki that he would be pinned to the wall by a tight, black leather-wearing senior trumpeter from Fuki named Subaru Sumeragi, also known as the Maestro's Little Boy Blue, in the center of the donut of socialites and celebutantes during the Maestro's homecoming Thanksgiving party, then Doumeki would have punched you in the mouth, knocked your jaw out of alignment, and if you were a man, kicked you in the nether regions hard enough so that you would have to tell your parents that you could no longer bear them grandchildren.

Meaning that somewhere out there, someone was about to have a fat, bleeding lip, a broken jaw, and possibly the great despair of never being able to reproduce, because at the moment Doumeki was being watched by half the town's population of young adults under the age of twenty-five staring at him as Subaru Sumeragi and all the trumpeter's leathery hotness was sucking face with him. Oh, and Watanuki was looking, too, while the Maestro was giving Doumeki a smile that could kill a thousand mockingbirds, and most likely a hundred men.

And although Doumeki had seriously—no, really—intended to politely shove Subaru off, he saw one expression in Watanuki's eyes, and Doumeki grabbed the trumpeter's bare shoulders and began to do the damage that he knew he might or might not heavily regret tomorrow morning. It was just that one facial expression that Watanuki pulled on in the millisecond that Subaru had pushed Doumeki to the wall—that one glance, and Doumeki wanted to fuck it all. That one little look capsized Doumeki's common sense for the night.

So now, Doumeki was forgetting all about Kimihiro Watanuki as Subaru's soft hands snuck beneath his shirt and touched his abdomen and slid down and down and low and unbuckled his pants and went down further and lower and lower still and touched—

_He touched it._

Doumeki's lips weren't leaving Subaru, but his hands were roaming all over and over and over and now he began moving them, because they couldn't stay here forever and the crowd was beginning to gasp and he could even hear cell phones taking pictures and recording this but of course he couldn't care less because he could feel leather writhing and squirming against him and he really didn't know if his shirt was dropped into somewhere where he could find it again all he really knew was that he was hot and hot and hot and he needed to cool down but he didn't want to and—

_Slam him into the door. Slam him down._

They stumbled everywhere, trying to find a path to the bedrooms where they'd most likely get yelled at by Seishiro or Fuuma for dirtying the beds that weren't theirs but it didn't even matter because Subaru was so good and everyone was clearing a pathway for them watching them and watching and wanting to touch but they couldn't because not everybody could have this and most everyone wouldn't but Doumeki had never been touched like this by Watanuki and a part of him—a tiny part—wished that the goalie would—

_Am I touching Subaru? Or am I touching _him_?_

And as they finally managed to collapse onto some bed in some room in near pitch black darkness, Doumeki could only hear one thing—one annoying childish thing that he still remembered from so, so, so long ago when he first learned that the world wasn't full of fair and kind people and the first time it ever happened to him was at a Little League soccer game and as he touched Subaru and made the trumpeter gasp and as he felt Subaru go down and down and down and finally knew why Little Boy Blue was so famous for blowing a horn Doumeki heard it over and over—that one chant—

_Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater._

* * *

_A/N: *headdesk* FINALLY! *waves a little flag* I did it!_

_Ugh. I didn't think I'd ever get this chapter done before dying of old age or other accidental/non-accidental purposes. But I did. So I beg of you, review so I can get the next one done before I die or eat a poisonous pumpkin. Anyway, even though I didn't think I could ever do this chapter in a non-cliche way, I actually did (I think), and it was shockingly with the help of one of my ex-classmates (because we all graduated, WHOOT!) who's just the weirdest, funniest, most annoying people I've yet to meet. And he just does random sayings for random, inexplicable reasons, and one day he just decided to resurrect some childhood chants. Y'know, "nya, nya, nya, nya, nya", and "liar, liar, pants on fire", but when he said, "cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater", I told him that I'd never heard that one before. _

_And then it hit me. "Cheater". So that's where the title came about. And I thought that since this same kid in my class and Doumeki are both sports-obssessed, it's no wonder that they probably heard the pumpkin eater saying more than once, since little kids are apt to accusing cheaters because little kids and sports and losing don't go well together. Actually eighth graders and sports and losing don't go well together. But, I digress. So, anyway, review. And pray that I get a move on with the next chapter. (By the way, I'm officially on summer vacation now, so if I don't get the next chapter done soon, you can yell at me because I have no legitimate reason not to write). _

_P.S. Y'know Mello from Death Note? (Whom I've always found uber sexy...I wish he'd put something else other than chocolate in his mouth...) Yeah, well, his leather outfit, the vest and gloves and all, is what Subaru is wearing._


	15. Fearless

Chapter Fourteen: Fearless

Seishiro threaded his fingers together, tenting them and tucking the tips beneath his chin. He raised his eyebrows and restrained himself from sighing. "Don't give me that look." The Maestro leaned back and shifted from the right corner of the chair to the left. "Everything you have to tell me, I already know."

The face that everyone knew but few were able to ever see lit up into a smirk. Perfectly french manicured nails tapped along the glass surface of the desk. Yuuko began idly spinning the miniature globe—the one Seishiro's father had made him give to her as a Christmas present, the one with the countries and capital cities engraved upon the solid silver sphere. "Really, now?"

"Yes."

"So you know that you have no right to complain about what Little Boy Blue is throwing in your face?"

"Yes."

"And you have no right to stop him from continuing to shake his fine, little, black leathered ass in other young men's faces?"

"Yes. And please refrain from ever mentioning black leather in front of me again. I've already taken the liberty of sending our black leather furniture to the local incinerator."

"Touchy. Anyway, and you know that if you attempt to physically harm Shizuka Doumeki in anyway, I'll have to send the detectives on you?"

"Yes." A pause. "Do national detective agencies have any effects in third world countries?"

"You will not auction Doumeki for illegal slave trafficking. I thought we already talked about this."

"Fine." Another pause. "Continue."

Yuuko smiled. "And you _do_ know that having sex with Kimihiro Watanuki at the end of your Thanksgiving party just when Doumeki and Subaru were finished with _their_ business didn't show retaliation as much as it did infatuation?"

Seishiro smiled back twice as brightly, but he involuntarily shrank into the chair a bit. "Yes." This was the part he'd been dreading the worst. It was all over bWitch's blog, and thus, it was all over the campuses of the elite colleges, and all over the quartet of same-sex high schools. All over. All over the fact that Seishiro Sakurazuka, instead of moving on to his next hunt when Little Boy Blue blatantly cheated on him, attempted to get revenge.

Key word: _Attempted_.

Because cheating _back_ was nothing but the lowest of lows—a revenge method that was used as a last resort, just because it was nothing short of utterly distasteful and absolutely well…not classy. It was also sort of desperate. Someone who was as high up as Seishiro just didn't do it like that. Even someone like Mioru Aoi wouldn't have done something this pathetic. Someone like Seishiro was supposed to have, at that moment, internally deemed Subaru unworthy for himself and perhaps found a new hunt in a nearby young woman or man who was _not_ related to Doumeki or Subaru in any way.

And normally, in any other case, Seishiro would have done exactly that. In any other case, last night, Seishiro would have sipped his scotch, quirked an eyebrow, smiled deliciously, before then proceeding to enjoy the rest of the night, and possibly—preferably—ending the night by having sex with the nearest person his cookie jar fingers could reach.

But that wasn't what happened because this _wasn't_ a normal case. This involved Subaru, and although Seishiro would never admit it, Subaru wasn't normal to him. Subaru was another story, and this was just…bleh.

Meaning? Well, meaning last night, Seishiro had slammed his scotch down until the contents spilled out, stood up, and nearly massacred half his guests trying to find Watanuki, before then proceeding to slam him onto the floor, strip both him and the goalie of three-quarters of their clothes, and then dragging him through the first door they collided with.

He'd done the goalie in such a fit of madness that Watanuki had to kick him in the shins to make him stop long enough to remember that neither of them wanted to get a disease, and therefore use a condom.

And now, he was facing great, great, great repercussions. One of which was that Yuuko was less than enthused about the fact that everything she'd ever taught him and everything he'd ever told her he'd wanted to stand for had gone down the drain in one night because apparently the great Maestro wasn't so great when it came to Subaru Sumeragi (otherwise known—at least in Seishiro's mind—as the little shit-faced fuck that just wouldn't _go away_).

She wasn't the only one.

There wasn't even anything that extraordinary or just plain special about the trumpeter, aside from his magnificent trumpeting, obviously. Well, at least nothing legitimately special about him. Nothing that could be placed on a college, career, or prostitution application. And those were the only things that counted in life.

But then again, Seishiro would be lying if he said that there was nothing special about Subaru _at all_. Because even if he lied to everyone else, he couldn't lie to himself and forget everything that had ever been documented into his mental scrapbook of every single second he'd ever spent with Subaru. He wouldn't say he remembered everything, because he didn't. If he did, he'd be intensely pathetic. But he remembered enough. He remembered what he knew was worth remembering.

Because in his eyes—his bastard eyes that'd unfeelingly watched more than one girl and boy cry over his rejecting them—the things that made Subaru special was everything that no resume was allowed to have written upon it, because he didn't want anyone knowing about any of this except for himself.

Seishiro didn't want anyone to know that if Subaru kissed you, he'd automatically touch the hair curling around your ears.

Seishiro didn't want anyone to know that if you placed your tongue in Subaru's mouth, he'd always give a little gasp that he seemed unable to stop no matter how many times you played tonsil hockey.

Seishiro didn't want anyone to know that if you licked the inside of Subaru's left thigh precisely six inches from the kneecap and dragged the tip of your tongue at a seventy degrees angle for about four inches, Subaru would inhale and his voice would crack and it would be the most beautiful sound human ears could hear.

Seishiro didn't want anyone to know that if you eased your hand into Subaru's while you and he slept, Subaru would sleep twice as sounder and wake at least an hour earlier.

And Seishiro would murder anyone who found out that the first time, during sex, that you entered Subaru, he would always curl his toes and grasp your shoulders and bite his lip and you would have to use all of your willpower as a man just not to come from looking at that expression.

Doumeki as a third world slave was sounding better and better.

"So," Yuuko said, taking a slight sip from her wine flute. "How does it feel to have the one you love cringe whenever you reach out to touch them? I bet you really get off on it, don't you Maestro? Now, even the one that was brave—and insane—enough to love you like a man, rather than a god, is afraid of you."

Seishiro wasn't quite smiling now. "Then why didn't you stop me? Why _don't_ you stop me? I know you enough to know that you knew the minute when this began."

To that, she simply arched her eyebrows and leaned back against her chair. "Because," she said, her smirk fading with every passing second, "I think it's high time that you learn about how looks, sex, money, talent, and success isn't going to get you what you really want, and that just because you have someone's respect and fear doesn't mean you have their love."

"I know it doesn't."

Her eyebrows joined in the middle, rising up further into her bangs. She sighed and smiled, finally. "Then why, when he already loved you and respected you and wanted you so much, why did you have to make him fear you?"

Seishiro didn't answer. He merely smiled back.

_Because I've always feared _him_. _

* * *

The minute Doumeki walked through the locker rooms on the first day back from Thanksgiving break, he was drop-kicked five feet and punched in the gut the second he landed still. He had barely enough time to register where he had landed—probably against a bench, considering how he now felt as though his brain cell population had just been drastically reduced—when he heard his teammates shouting, but doing nothing to stop Watanuki from grabbing the front of Doumeki's shirt and banging his shoulder into a locker.

Doumeki supposed—as he and Watanuki played racquetball, where Watanuki was the player and Doumeki was the ball, and Doumeki was more or less bounced (slammed) from head-to-toe against every solid surface there was, and even against some of the teammates, waiting for the fight to clear—that he deserved every bruise and cut he was being dealt.

Or rather, _almost_ every bruise and cut.

Because really, Doumeki knew that Watanuki was as much to blame for this as he was. Watanuki wasn't stupid, and therefore, Doumeki really thought that the goalie should've known that they weren't normal kids—none of them were—and in their world, cheating on and getting cheated on didn't necessarily mean they were evil people. Sometimes it just meant that life was fucking with them or sometimes they just had to get over it, apologize, forgive, and move on.

And if Watanuki was going to do this—"this" referred to cheating in revenge and then pounding the shit out of Doumeki—every time that something like the tryst with Subaru occurred, then Doumeki had a few words to say about it.

But since Doumeki had never been a talker, he would just continue on the absolutely spiffy conversation they were having right now.

It went a bit like this:

Watanuki's fist dug into Doumeki's stomach and twisted, reaching right up against the forward's ribs.

_Why did you have sex with Subaru Sumeragi? What did I do wrong?_

Doumeki whirled away and grabbed the arm that'd just bruised his stomach, wrenching it around and bending it over Watanuki's back like a twig, ignoring completely the goalie's silent gasp.

_It's how our world works. Don't question—just shut up. And besides…you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just an asshole. _

Watanuki yanked out of the forward's grasp and pinned him to the tiles, kneeing Doumeki's shins and slapping him hard enough to send blood tricking down his nose and mouth.

_Yeah. You are. But so am I. I'm sorry. The Maestro sucks, and I was an angry asshole. Kind of like you were, huh? I'll have sex. I'll do anything. I'm just sorry._

Doumeki elbowed up into Watanuki's hip, throwing him off, and throwing himself on top of the goalie, punching his cheek aside and kicking him in the thigh—snatching Watanuki's arms and pulling them this way and that, as if willing them to break.

_You're stupid. _

Watanuki grabbed Doumeki's tie and smashed his head into a bench leg.

_So are you._

Doumeki stomped on Watanuki's arm.

_Not as stupid as you._

Watanuki fisted Doumeki's hair.

_I'm not._

Doumeki fisted Watanuki's shirt.

_Yeah. You are._

Their lips collided together.

_I hate you so much._

The teammates looked away, and Touya closed the curtains, as clothes began to litter the floor.

_Love you, too, moron. _

* * *

Kurogane threw the towel over his shoulder and sprayed his face with his water bottle. He raised an eyebrow down at the dark blond boy on the ground and offered him a hand. The boy looked up at him and blinked those long girly eyelashes vaguely. Kurogane jabbed the proffered hand twice for good measure because he didn't think that his kid—although a badass at karate—was very bright considering he wasn't taking the hand.

"Yes?" the boy asked, while remaining firmly planted in the rather uncomfortable position he'd landed in when Kurogane had defeated him minutes ago.

Kurogane rolled his eyes. "For goddamn's sakes, take the fucking hand."

The corners of the boy's almond-shaped eyes—almost feline—slanted upward when he smiled, and placed his hand in Kurogane's and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet. "Thank you."

"Sure." Kurogane wiped the sweat from his face, dabbing at his forehead and cheeks and throat as he watched the boy shake out that ridiculously straight, flat dark blond hair. It brushed against the high cheeks and paler, higher cheekbones. He was a rather pretty boy, and if Kurogane could only remember his name—which he really should know, since this boy was in his grade.

But Kurogane thought that it would be rather rude of him to ask, considering that the boy had demonstrated that he certainly knew Kurogane's name. However, Kurogane had never possessed much tact in the first place. And tact, in his eyes, was for pussies. The boy walked across the mat toward the bleachers, placing one hand firmly on the wood and sighing as he tilted his head upward. Kurogane frowned as he watched the boy's eyes close.

"Hey," he crossed over cautiously. "Are you…er…all right?" He would've said that the boy looked kind of pale, which wasn't usually the norm around at Maikeru. This kid looked more like he belonged at Fuki, where all the pretty, prissy fairy boys resided. The only thing that made the boy fit the slightest bit in was that he was the same height as Kurogane.

_Seniors _weren't the same height as Kurogane.

The boy opened his eyes and brought his head level to look at Kurogane, and then he smiled, placating. "I'm fine. I just need some MDA."

Kurogane's eyes narrowed, as the boy dug out a little plastic bag of white powder from his backpack. "Isn't that the stuff you get high from? For parties and shit? Why d'you need any of that crap now?"

"It's kind of a relaxant, too," the boy said nonchalantly, his eyes lidded as he held a pinch of the powder to his nose and breathed in. His eyes traveled to Kurogane, holding the bag out. "Do you want some?"

Kurogane shot back with another question. "What's your name?"

"Senryuu." He closed the bag and tossed it back into his book bag. "Kurohyou. I'm in the homeroom beside from yours. Well, of course the great Kurogane You-ou wouldn't know me, would he now?" And the way he smiled irked Kurogane because it was so sadly truthful.

Kurogane crossed his arms. "How am I so great?"

"You're with Mioru Aoi. Passed boy toy status ages ago. Isn't that an achievement?"

"Who you're with isn't an achievement. It's just a fact."

Senryuu's smile was now so sad that it hurt Kurogane to look at it. "That's because you're you. If it were me, I'd—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Kurogane had already sent him flying across the mats and thudding into the bleachers on the other side of the sparring room. Senryuu shook hair from his eyes and looked up in time to see Kurogane slamming him right up against the bleachers as soon as Senryuu had even regained enough momentum to move. "Fucking don't touch him."

Senryuu didn't even fight back, and for a moment, Kurogane thought that even if he'd struck to kill, Senryuu still wouldn't have defended himself. Senryuu merely placed his hand gently over Kurogane's fist, tilted his head, closed his eyes into a tragic smile and said around the blood trickling from his mouth, "Everyone can tell he actually, really loves you. So please don't hurt him. Okay?"

Kurogane had never been scared of anything. Because from his point of view—as his father had told him—the only thing to really fear was fear itself. But nowadays, he wasn't so sure. There were suddenly a lot of things popping around that were scary as goddamn hell. And right now, all Kurogane wanted to do was get as far away from Senryuu as he possibly could. No matter how fucking sad and oddly brilliant those undecidedly colored eyes were, it didn't change the fact that they were fearfully dangerous.

If he could help it, Mioru wasn't even going to ever meet the bastard.

* * *

_A/N: Just saying, but this is the last time you'll actually see Senryuu until the very end of Compelled. And if you want, I s'pose you can dub him as superduperty insane or just screwed up in the mind enough to love Mioru. Especially since he's never really met Mioru. Well, he sort of has. But yeah. That's kind of all I had to say except that Doumeki and Watanuki are pretty much set as far as storylines go, until Secrets when that scene with Mioru and Watanuki in the boys' locker rooms. And as you can see, Seishiro must really be losing his touch if he's even having counseling sessions with Yuuko._

_Just saying. Reviews. _


	16. London Bridge

Chapter Fifteen: London Bridge

Mioru leaned back against the bench and stared at the ceiling. "I can't believe you two did that." He looked to his two teammates and almost actually grinned. "I can't believe you two did that. I can't believe you two actually fucked in front of the entire team"—he pointed to the stall—"right there in the damn—"

"Can you _shut_ up?" Watanuki asked. Doumeki twiddled his thumbs.

Mioru raised his eyebrows. "Well, what else am I supposed to say? What else am I supposed to say when two of the guys on the team I captain duked it out on the locker room floor before having some pretty fantastic sex—so fantastic that you gave straight Sorata a boner and Touya had to close the curtains on you? _What am I supposed to say to that?_"

"Nothing," Watanuki said through gritted teeth. "Absolutely nothing at all."

Mioru pouted and folded his arms. "God. What's got up your ass?"

Doumeki raised one hand lazily, as if to answer a question in class. "Me."

Watanuki elbowed him in the stomach. Doumeki doubled over.

"Hey, don't hurt him too bad. I need him for this season." Mioru grinned as he edged closer to Watanuki, until the captain's chin rested on the goalie's shoulder. "Then again, I s'pose I should also be telling Doumeki not to hurt you too bad."

He watched rather amusedly as Watanuki looked determinedly at his knees, scowling behind the spectacles, and as Doumeki simply raised his eyebrows, staring bluntly—as usual—ahead. "Anything else? We kind of want to leave. It's Saturday."

"Nope." Mioru grinned. "I've got nothing else. I have my own plans, anyhow. 'Nother party next week, y'know? Then we've got the fucking SATs and crap. I've got prep tonight." He nodded at Watanuki. "You?"

"My prep's on Fridays." The goalie stood up briskly—the forward followed.

The captain watched them leave with partial amusement and another part, relieved. If those two had taken the other road when it came to pumpkin-eating, then he would have had no other choice than to put them on probation for getting personal affairs written into team affairs. And that would've been more shit than Mioru wanted to have to put up with.

After all, those two were his best players. Except maybe for Syaoran.

He went to his feet and walked around the showering wall, surveying the stall that'd remained curtained off until they managed to come up with a suitable excuse to the school janitor about why he'd have to have the area specially cleaned to get rid of the considerable amount of…erm…well, yeah.

"Wow," a voice said behind him. "_Someone_ had a little too much fun shooting off their load."

Mioru spun around and found himself staring at Kurogane—hands in his pockets, eyebrows high on his forehead as he stared down at the stained tiles. "Yeah, well. A couple of the guys on my team had a fight and then they decided to kiss and make up in the same hour. Coincidentally, right here in the shower stall."

"Looks like they did a lot more than kiss, yeah?"

"Yeah, well." Mioru slung his arms over the martial artist's shoulders—Kurogane was going through a growth spurt _again, _which was unfair for God's sakes—and pulled one corner of his mouth into a smirk, displaying his teeth. "Maybe we should take a page out of their book. Might as well, since they already got the place dirty, y'know? What's one or two more stalls…?"

He felt Kurogane grin against his lips. "Sing, sing, sing."

* * *

Yuui didn't like this. He didn't like this one bit. And not for the reasons an informed onlooker to this scene might believe. He didn't dislike this because the subject of his affections was talking with his brother and Yuui himself and moreover, looking at his brother in an intimate way. No, that wasn't it. Or at least, not completely it.

For even though Yuui was a shit brother, he was still a brother—and although a twin, he was the older twin. Seven minutes still granted him the role of an older brother. And as the older brother, he didn't quite like seeing someone who'd raped his brother _near_ his brother—even if he _was_ in love with the psycho. Moreover, he just plain didn't like the fact that Fai had forgiven Ashura so easily. Even if Ashura _had_ been right.

But he supposed he would simply have to deal, as the-so-proclaimed rapist had currently invited them to stay the night at his house (the term threesome kept nagging at Yuui's mind absurdly) because Ashura wanted to discuss options of getting Kyle off of Yuui and Fai for good, and not just because they were eighteen and could therefore live alone.

They'd already skimmed over and dismissed the Asking Nicely policy by default. Ashura had suggested threats and blackmail, which Yuui had intervened dryly because Kyle kept his record so spotless that there was nothing to threaten or blackmail him _with_. Ashura had, then, so countered that with, well, how about they make something happen so Kyle _would_ have blackmailing material to work with?

Yuui had simply scoffed and said that there was no such possibility. Kyle was a well-respected doctor (pimp) in the society. And those who did know his secret were compelled to keep it under extreme locks because it was _their_ secret, too.

Then, Ashura had asked about why they couldn't just go straight up to the police, since they had hard evidence and all. And that was when Yuui had blown a fuse and had to be restrained by Fai. Which was then when Fai had quietly suggested that Yuui tell Ashura about that One Time when Fai and Yuui were still young and naïve and _had_ tried to go to the police for help.

That time when it had just so happened that the policeman at desk duty that day was a client of Kyle's and had simply held Fai and Yuui aside until he called Kyle to pick them up. After which, Kyle had brought both of them home, locked Yuui in the pantry for five hours during which he solely punished Fai until the boy fainted.

Ashura had promptly cut off the topic after that.

Meaning that now, all three of them were sitting around the kitchen table, empty bottles of Prosecco and scotch in front of them, quelled with their own thoughts in the dark room—it was past midnight, and Ashura's parents as well as the maids and butler had far past retired to their bedrooms.

"By the way," Ashura said abruptly. "I have your Task for you."

"Which one?" Yuui said, glancing at Fai.

"Both of you."

Fai. "By the same person?"

"Yeah." Ashura slid across an envelope on the table. "It's from Yuuto Kigai. He's chosen you—both of you."

Fai and Yuui exchanged looks, before—in a way only twins could accomplish—simultaneously taking the envelope in one hand each and opening it together. Yuui unfolded the letter with shaking fingers—really, Yuui Fluorite, _nervous_? It was ridiculous. He had to stop this. Even Fai seemed calmer—simply watching his twin scan the words.

He handed the letter to Fai. Watched his brother read. Watched as his twin's eyes came back up to meet his. They turned back to Ashura and his tented fingers, surveying them. "Is it hard?"

"Not exactly," Fai said. He looked back to Yuui, gaze scarily empty—the way it'd been for the past month.

Yuui swallowed, wishing for the first time in his life that neither he nor his brother had been born into this life. Wishing for the first time that they were normal—normal citizens in a normal household with normal money and normal futures. Normal appearances. Normal talents. Normal lives.

He just had never asked for any of this. It was getting worse and worse.

* * *

Kamui sighed as the waves crashed around him, coming down from that perfect, perfect high of pain and pleasure all mixed into one. That perfect feeling that all was right with the world—even for just a moment, a split second—before it all came hurtling down back into reality. And currently, reality was being hot and sticky in bed, pinned beneath Fuuma.

Fuuma rolled from him, eyes closing as their pulses slowed and their bodies cooled. Kamui kept his eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling, because despite this little game that everyone seemed to be playing about how everything was still all right—it all really wasn't.

And Kamui couldn't believe he only realized this when Yuui had come to apologize that time weeks ago. It hadn't been in Yuui's eyes. It was like it'd been forced—as though Yuui was so preoccupied on something else that he couldn't care to remember how Kamui was Yuui's fucking best friend. How they were brothers. So in turn, Kamui was lost.

Being with Fuuma didn't feel right any more. Having sex didn't feel right anymore. Drinking. Drugs. None of it felt the same way Kamui remembered it to. It all used to be such a thrill—wondering if they were going to get caught. Tumbling beneath the sheets, laughing. Swigging down bottle after bottle. Lighting joint after joint.

But Yuui didn't seem to want to do any of it anymore. Seishiro and Subaru were always holed up—Kamui didn't even know his brother any more. Fuuma seemed to be escaping into the sex. Ashura and Fai were just gone. No one. Absolutely no one was left, and Kamui was wondering what'd happened. Utterly lost. It was like they were all zombies.

Brain dead. Partying, dancing, reveling…but with empty hearts. There wasn't any more joy. It was almost as if they all only did it to make sure that their audience didn't leave out of boredom—they were entertainers. They always were, and the show had to go on.

But Kamui felt that if this show went on for any longer—no intermissions, no closed curtains between the acts—all of the actors would collapse. The characters would have to be killed off. It couldn't go on. But at the same time, it had to. And Kamui himself had to be in tiptop performance at every single weekend party Seishiro threw. A college sophomore and returning every single weekend…that itself proved that Seishiro was under strain, too.

Seishiro didn't bother himself with checking in on the Circus last year. He'd been too busy acquainting himself with the beds of the Holy Trinity. What changed his mind this year? Perhaps the fact that everything seemed to be falling. Just like Rome. Falling, falling, falling.

Fuuma's fingers touched his cheek. "You're quiet."

Kamui slid his legs beneath the covers and turned his gaze to the athlete. "Yeah? I'm thinking." He reached over to the nightstand and opened the drawer, digging out a musty, pre-rolled joint—placing it between his lips. "Light? Mine broke."

"What, from overuse?" Fuuma teased. "Yeah, it's in my pants." He nudged the article of clothing with his toe. "Back left pocket."

Kamui reached across and lit up the end, closing his eyes and inhaling. He waited all of the two counted minutes before the question he knew—and dreaded—would happen.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Does Seishiro mention Subaru at all to you?"

"About as much as I mention you to him. Pretty much nil." Fuuma collapsed his head into Kamui's lap, one hand reaching up and holding around the nape of the writer's neck. "We're not fucking twins. We more or less keep to ourselves about stuff like this." His eyes flickered to Kamui. "Why? Is there something off about Subaru?"

"No. Not really." _There's something off about all of us, haven't you noticed? _"He's just been…not at home a lot. Always gone right after school—he drives himself up to Seishiro's place, I suppose."

Fuuma raised an eyebrow and used the arm around Kamui's neck to pull the writer's lips down to his. "Must be nice," he said against the kiss, eyes glinting, "to have your means of getting off drive up to you every weekend like the Laundromat, y'know? Want me to do that next year?"

"Next year for you is junior year. You'll be too busy with your SATs to drive up every weekend and do me. And if you fail, Seishiro will have your hide, I'm guessing."

Fuuma looked at him steadily. The sort of gaze that always scared Kamui—the kind of gaze that he knew meant the athlete was being serious. He pulled the senior back in for another kiss and said quietly, "Some things are worth getting skinned for, then, aren't they?"

_He just never gets it, does he?_

Kamui was in his clothes and out the door before Fuuma could get a word in edgewise.

* * *

Subaru gasped, his eyes hitting wide and a strangled sound cracking out of his lips. The orgasm crashed between his legs painfully—restrained at the last inch for too long, the relief was sharp rather than soothing. His nails dug into the edge of the rug, grasping and holding on—holding on because having something to cling onto made it that much more bearable. The hot body—nearly still fully clothed—pinning him down suddenly disappeared from his skin. The cold air rushed in to take its place.

He let himself collapse against the rough, scratch textiles of the rug beneath him. Today, it'd gone on longer, harder, messier and icier yet. This entire thing had gone on to the point where there wasn't even anymore questioning in his mind. He just did it. It just _was_. No matter how painful, how much it hurt, how much Subaru kept hoping that the agony in his chest would stop hurting so fiercely. That it, instead, would cool down and freeze into a detached ice age. The way Seishiro seemed to have done.

And still, the part of Subaru that was just asking—begging, really—for a death wish still persisted with that ridiculous train of thought. A stream of logic that was too convoluted to be logic: _Maybe he did it this way because he's mad about Doumeki._

Subaru knew that if he'd started to consider the rougher abuse as a way of affection, his axis of sanity must be tilting. Which wouldn't surprise him. He more expected it, than anything. With everything going on around him, it wasn't that his axis of sanity was tilting—it was that his entire _world_ was going off kilter. Everything he ever knew seemed to be falling apart, and not just because of Seishiro. Not even close.

Yuui, who Subaru had always remembered and known as laughing and flirting and seductive, now seemed to be brooding and forcing smiles more painful than an agonized grimace could be. Fai, who Subaru had always remembered and known as flawless and quiet and smiling, seemed to be faltering in those soft smiles—seemed to be so quiet it was frightening. And even Subaru's own brother was changing.

If the ones he'd grown up with (the one's he'd found to keep himself sane in this world that they'd been born in—a world where not even _money_ could keep you safe), the one's that he'd always known, or thought he'd known, turned out not to be what he first saw…what could he depend on?

And then, there was Seishiro. Seishiro, who always used to be so perfect and gentle and kind…if the Maestro himself seemed to be losing it all…were they all going to lose it? Would they all fall out and apart with each other? Subaru didn't even understand why this was happening. What made this year—these few months—any different than any other of the past times in their lives? What had _happened_?

Subaru curled himself from the floor and gathered himself into a sitting position, keeping himself up with one arm. He dared to tilt his head upward, watching Seishiro buckle his pants and adjust his clothes, back facing the trumpeter. Subaru wet his lips and sighed quietly, hands clasping around his arms. Quieter still, he took hold of the armrest of a sofa near to him, and hauled himself standing.

He walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

The bruises were bruises, at least. They had their advantages over cuts, because those were harder to disguise. It took more concealer. But cuts were better because they only stung for a period of time—they healed silently, whereas bruises hurt whenever they made contact with anything of pressure.

He'd become accustomed to the warm ache that immediately infested in his injuries when the water touched his body—the rain of droplets from the showerhead. He'd become accustomed to the rush of cold air as his naked body stepped out from the steamy bathroom. He'd become accustomed to the suffocating feeling of his clothes brushing against his freshly concealed injuries, and the ones that hadn't yet healed from another time.

But he'd never become accustomed, and he knew he never would be, to facing Seishiro right before it was time for the trumpeter to leave. Usually, and tonight was no different, the Maestro would have already changed and slipped himself beneath the covers—lights dark, and door set to lock from the inside for Subaru's departure.

Normally, Subaru would cross past the bedroom doorway without another glance, willing himself not to look in. But tonight, he knew what he had to say, otherwise, he might not be able to lull his own self to sleep, and a sleepless night was one thing he couldn't afford. His parents had already commented—albeit casually and most likely teasingly—about how Subaru looked stressed enough to the point where maybe they should send him to rehab.

In Italy. Like Fuuka Li.

Honestly, Subaru would really rather die. Really.

But this, Subaru had to do. So he slid through the silver of the door left open, and knelt beside the bed—knelt beside the sleeping conductor, sleeping on his side, closed eyes facing the doorway. Facing Subaru.

The trumpeter knelt and he sat back against his legs, taking a deep breath, and smiling like he hadn't smiled in so long at Seishiro's slumbering face. "If Yuui were here, he would laugh at me for talking to a sleeping person," Subaru had whispered, turning and leaning back against the edge of the mattress. Close enough so that he could feel the body heat wafting from Seishiro. "If my brother saw this, he might be the first seventeen-year-old to get a heart attack."

Subaru returned his body, and sat Indian-style now, one hand resting close to Seishiro's face. "But…" He gave that smile again—a smile soft and tiny and fragile like a baby bird feathers. Fleeting and perfect and somehow, sad enough to make you needed to cry, but not sad enough so you could. "…you felt so angry today. I know you hate me…but, if I made you mad because of that thing with Doumeki…don't be, please? I'm sorry."

He took another bracing breath, and placed his hand on the Maestro's cheek—hoping against hope that he wouldn't wake up. All Subaru wanted was one touch—just one. "It's part of Hokuto's task. I think you'll be angry with me again soon. But…" Subaru moved his fingers hesitantly against the warm skin. "I don't know if it's just," he laughed like a ghost, "another one of my stupid thoughts or not. But if it's anything, I don't love any of them. 'Kay?"

And with that, Subaru leaned forward, as if to kiss Seishiro's lips.

But he didn't. He drew away—leaving a phantom imprint, just air against the Maestro's mouth. He wanted to. Subaru wanted to so much. But he couldn't. He touched the conductor's hair, and then stood.

And then left.

* * *

Seishiro lifted one eyelid open.

* * *

Naked, Yuui stared at the ceiling, imagining he had a paintbrush and imagining he swirled blue paint all over the white. He would lead the brush around in a circle first, and then he would go up and down and zigzagging to the side. Then, he would move it onto its side and paint in large, thick strokes.

The naked body beside him stirred beneath the sheets, black hair splayed against the pillow. Yuui sat up straighter against the headboard and looked down at his companion. He stroked the soft, fine hair, letting it slide from his fingertips. "You're such a pumpkin eater."

The soft voice murmured, "I know."

* * *

_A/N: I TOLD you that there would be major OOH in this chapter, didn't I? I also promised you a naked cat fight, but I settled for a cliffhanger instead to get you reviewing. It's pretty obvious who Yuui just slept with (it seems like his friends are pretty much using him as a human dildo, y'know?) but I'm going to see if you can guess it right. 'Sides, I miss reviews. I know you're probably all on vacation in some place awesome or in some sort of camp, ('cause my friends are AWOL like that, too) but reviews are like teddy bears to me. They make the story go faster. Why else did you think Secrets was done, in like, a month?_

_Anyhow, after I finish Unveiled, I'm going to set up a Bleach AU, so then I'll have Watch This Space (Naruto), Underworld: Prohibited (TRC), and Infamous (Bleach), therefore having an array of fandoms to write in. Since, y'know, the Secrets stuff has pretty much tuckered out my TRC muse. I have just enough left to finish Prohibited, and maybe if a miracle hits, Rule. (Highly doubt it, though, but we can hope, right?) I also don't know how to quite end Impulse...I'll probably just end it when Unveiled is finished. Maybe have a really pwnsome chapter or something. I dunno. Summer's ending, and I have to read four books in three weeks. I know that there are better procrastinators out there, but among my peers, I'm pretty well off in procrastinating. Major projects I usually wait until the last two weekends. *nods* Yep. _

_Well. If you have procrastination habits that pwn mine, do tell. _

_(Btw, I've been splurging on One Piece lately, for the pure ZoroxSanji-ness of it all, and maybe some kickass Luffy moments. And this story's started forming in my head...Fai as a cannoneer and Kurogane as a marine....I might make it a story arc in my 1 to 100 compilation...thoughs?)_

_(One more thing: WATANUKI MAKES A BADASS SMOKER, NO?!?!?!..........Yuuko has created a monster.)_

_(On the plus side, who wants to hit Seishiro again?)_

_(I'm going to stop before the A/N turns out longer than the chapter. And because it's one in the morning.)_


	17. Violation

Chapter Sixteen: Violation

Yuui slid down beneath the covers and rolled onto his side, one hand propping him up, and the other submersing itself deeper into Kamui's tumbling, tousled hair. "Then why'd you do it?" He watched the writer stare at the ceiling, and rather pointedly not at Yuui.

"You shouldn't ask that." Kamui's eyes glowed, half lidded, in a way that made the guilt move in Yuui's stomach just right. The guilt that he had managed to put to sleep for the few hours after Ashura had left—until now. And the musician knew that Kamui knew. The writer fucking knew how to turn everything on Yuui, just because he couldn't damn well suffer by himself.

"If you answer fast, maybe I won't follow up." Yuui glanced surreptitiously at his friend's face. Kamui's eyes were still on the ceiling, glowing in that way that made Yuui want to punch him because it was just fucking unfair that Kamui had to do this. Yuui didn't want any more reasons to feel guilty over his existence—he already had enough guilt for fifty people, and maybe even enough to make up for Seishiro's lack thereof in addition.

"He scared me," came the simple reply. "He scares me."

Yuui watched him for all of two short moments. And then he said, "You're shit."

Kamui didn't move.

"You're shit because what you're more or less saying is that the fact that some fit soccer player not only wants to screw you every waking moment, but he loves you, too. And there's nothing in the way of that, and you love him back. It's all systems go—and that's a whole fucking lot more than anyone 'round in our crew can say for themselves, and you'd rather fuck everything up by fooling around behind him with your best friend." Kamui shifted a little. "Granted, it's the first time, but I'm not doing it a second time."

The writer moved his head slowly to the side, just looking at Yuui. "Then, why'd _you_ do it?"

"Because I needed sex." It was all Yuui could say, because it was the truth. He had needed something—not energized enough to put up with weed, and not clear-minded enough to put up with alcohol—and lo and behold, Kamui had come stumbling in, hair in his eyes and a request on his lips.

Kamui nodded against the pillow. "You're a whore."

The already tenuous lines of Yuui's sanity promptly broke.

Under the sheets, he kicked at Kamui's body—kicked hard enough for the writer to fall, bringing the blankets with him, and hit the floor with a thud. He crawled to the edge of the bed, and laid flat on his stomach, chin cushioned in his arms. He looked down at Kamui with icy eyes.

Most everyone had called him a whore at one point or another. And whoever didn't had called him a slut for better accuracy, as you didn't need money to sleep with Yuui Fluorite. Or at least, you didn't have to give any to him. Only Fai hadn't called him either of those, but that was because Fai knew what a real whore did, and it was nothing like the laughing trysts Yuui had.

Kamui had certainly called him a whore and a slut more than Yuui could remember, but they were friends. Best friends. Brothers. If you couldn't insult your friends, then you weren't friends. But while everyone who called him what they called him meant it at one point or another, Kamui never did. And Yuui thought he never would. He always thought that no matter how bad the going got, Kamui would never look at Yuui with those eyes and tell him what that voice that yes, Yuui Fluorite was a whore. He was a slut.

And he was all that because he was terrified that someone would find out how he was actually capable of having feelings like sadness. Like anger. Like frustration. Feelings other than lust. How Yuui Fluorite was capable of being vulnerable.

A silent gasp flew up from Yuui's lips, as hands tugged him down by the shoulders, and he tumbled atop Kamui's naked body. He felt the writer's legs clamp over his, holding him still and a slap whipped across the side of his face. Yuui's teeth snapped together, and he turned sharply, slamming Kamui's head to the ground, and digging his nails into the writer's shoulders. A hitched sound from the back of Kamui's throat at the sting.

Kamui struggled, squirming and thrashing in Yuui's grasp until their positions were reversed. He shoved Yuui backward, until they were rolling and pushing and scratching across the carpeted room, banging into the legs of the desk, the legs of the chair and nightstand, the bedposts, the closet and bathroom doors and doorways.

And they were naked. They'd just had sex. Stimulation was inevitable. When Yuui's cock grazed the carpet, he bit his lip. When he trapped Kamui beneath him, their hips rolled and they inhaled. When their hands warred and their legs tangled, their faces flushed. It was moments only until they began using the lusty developments as a way to win. Cupping the other's sack to get a slap to the face, licking the other's cock to get a blow to the stomach, squeezing the other's ass to get a scratch at the neck.

It wasn't a fistfight, because they weren't built for that. They didn't spend countless hours developing wiry muscles beneath rippling skin. They spent countless hours typing away in front of a screen, and letting their fingers dance over black and white keys. And a fistfight was at the least, honorable and whole.

They didn't fight like that either. They fought beneath each other's skin, grating and hissing and dirty. They fought with every intention to win, and nothing but terror to lose. But right now, Yuui didn't know why they were fighting. It would be so much better if they just screamed at each other until they were too tired to do anything else. They'd never fought like this before. Fought _physically_.

But he was furious. He wanted something to die—he needed something to suffer as much as he was. And he wanted Kamui to hurt the way the writer seemed to just be asking for. Kamui had everything Yuui had ever wanted, and still, he had to just ask for things to be fucked up by coming here and sleeping with the pianist. It was fucking, fucking stupid. It was fucking insanity, and Yuui had had enough of Kamui.

Kamui in his perfect little world, being Yuuko's apprentice, and having a brother who was well and whole, having someone who loved him and who he loved, having parents, being able to be a true socialite without knowing that it could come crashing down any moment. That no matter what he did, he still had those stupid socialite parents and real socialite family. He didn't have to watch his brother _whore himself out_ to stay in this world.

It was madness.

And when the first drops of blood finally fell—from Yuui's lip, and from Kamui's temple—they stopped. They sat back against their thighs, just feet apart from each other, and stopped. Breathing harshly, chests heaving, bits from the carpet stuck all over their bare bodies—all in their hair, and their cocks erect. Their eyes were wet. Yuui's face felt hot.

"Leave," Yuui whispered. "Now."

Kamui looked at him evenly. He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes and face, pulling himself onto the bed to gather his clothes. He stood, and crossed over to the door, and without another glance, he left.

* * *

Fai took another swig from the bottle, his tongue lingering on the rim for just a while longer as his hand pulled the glass away by its neck. He stared at the letter Ashura had given them. From Yuuto Kigai, no less. Yuuto Kigai could be as infamous as Seishiro if he'd wanted to be. He could've by no means been the Maestro, but he could've become something akin to it. Something possibly almost as great, if not just as.

But while Seishiro was not known only for the sex, Yuuto Kigai was known just for, well, just the sex. And while it was known that Yuuto Kigai was very, very, very straight, what made him as infamous as he was, was the fact that he slept with men, anyhow. Just for the sake of sleeping with them. Anyone else, and they'd be dubbed as bi. But Yuuto Kigai slept with men because he did it for the sake of sleeping with men. Because he was just a little bit insane that way. And that was why he was known.

Putting all that into consideration, it wasn't as shocking as it had been the first time Fai laid eyes on the words in his Task letter. Once Yuuto being Yuuto was put into perspective, the Task at hand seemed rather calm. It might even be amusing how life had paired Fai and Yuui together even for their Task, if Fai got drunk enough. As it stood, he was about two-third there. Maybe a Scotch this time, for a change. Rum would be nice, too.

Fai draped himself over his desk and shook out the letter. He knew that Yuui would have no problem with it. To up that thought, he'd just seen Kamui half naked and quite miserable, walking through the halls. Wherever Fai tried to escape sex, Yuui escaped _into_ sex.

And now, they had this. Of all the Tasks, it was this. It was like the deities loved to taunt with Fai. Poking him in the arm and whispering, _"Hey, we dare you." _Fai really didn't want to put up with that kind of shit. He couldn't retaliate. He just wanted to ignore it, but it seemed that fate loved to fuck with him. Sometimes, literally.

If he even hesitated at this Task, Yuui would immediately call it off, therefore losing the one thing that they could earn all on their own without Kyle's money. It wasn't Kyle's money that'd gotten them so infamous after being adopted. It wasn't Kyle's money that'd allowed them to become part of the Circus. It wasn't Kyle's money that made the reason why they were the treasured gems of the Maestro's collection. It was all Fai and Yuui. And now, Fai wasn't going to let it go.

It wasn't just for Yuui. It was for Fai, too. He thought…maybe…_maybe_ if he could do _this_, he'd be just that much closer to being able to let Ashura _really _touch him. The two deeds were in no way the same, but they were close. And just maybe, if Fai, for once in his life, was the one who asserted things, he wouldn't have everyone keep their eyes on Yuui. Yuui wouldn't always have to dance in the center of the ring as a distraction. And moreover—

For once in his life, Fai wanted all eyes on _him_.

Not his brother.

Because Fai was tired of being _Fai_. He was tired of having everyone seeing how weary and soft he was—having emotions displayed so blatantly on his face. He was an insult to the Maestro. Seishiro had taught him better, and all of that was going down the drain with every passing day. Fai could sense so obviously how his _whatever they were _falling around him. And even though most of them probably thought Fai had been the first to fall, they'd been wrong.

Fai hadn't fallen yet. And he thought that everyone else could fall all they want, he wasn't going to. He was going to tug through this—even if he came out scratched and bleeding and half-dead. Because he'd been through more shit than this in all his seventeen years on Earth, and he wasn't going to be pushed down so easily.

_He_ knew what was causing everyone to fall down. Even if they themselves didn't.

It was the real meaning of a socialite. A celebutante. An heir. The real meaning of being privileged.

Because Fai had experienced firsthand and all too much how the life they'd all been born into wasn't all sex and games. It was soon realizing the fact that they were different. They couldn't live like normal citizens, because they weren't. In a life where money and position were nothing but prerequisites, and where money and position didn't even cut _close_ to being successful, the stakes would always be high. Anyone could have the intellect to attain wealth and status.

But that wasn't what made the Circus the Circus. Not because they were rich. Not because they were beautiful. Not because most of them knew how to perform fellatio before they knew Pre-Algebra. Not because their parents were the reason the rest of the country could function.

It was because they were who they were. And someday soon, they would have to realize, just as Fai had always known—ever since that one fateful night locked in a bathroom, broken and bleeding on the tiles—that sometimes, being who they were compelled them to do unspeakable things. Because the danger of being up so high from the moment of your birth was that you never knew how hard it was to get back up.

And with that, Fai smiled in sardonic amusement to himself, licking the rim of the bottle and rustling the letter in his hand. After all that thinking, it wouldn't do to be a hypocrite and back out. He was compelled to do unspeakable things, just like the rest of them. He was compelled to keep secrets—about his life, about others' lives, about the law, about everything.

This was why their teachers never told them that if a friend was getting hurt, you had to tell an adult—even when the friend made you promise not to. Because their teachers had dabbled in the socialite world to be teachers at these schools, and in the socialite world, friends were important. Everyone had business associates, and advisors, and colleagues—but friends were rare. And you didn't dare make a promise you knew you wouldn't keep.

And Yuui had promised that he would never do anything Fai didn't want. Meaning that if Fai didn't want this, they would lose their chance to be Sacreds. Or more importantly, Fai would lose his chance, and drag Yuui down with him.

Fuck it all, if Fai let that happen. His cowardice would stop now. He was compelled to do this, after all.

* * *

That night, the smell of alcohol lingered deathly all through the second floor—strongest in two rooms, side by side. Fai stood in Yuui's doorway, no lights between either of them, no lights coming from anywhere but Kyle's distant study on the highest story of the house. The pianist's shadow was just seeable by the faintest outline. Naked still, by Fai's guess.

He held the letter in his left hand, the paper making soft sounds against his jeans—and he held a small box in his right hand. He walked into the dark room, watching the smoke filter against the moonlight streaming through the forest trees just outside the window. Yuui's silhouette cut against the scene. The older twin's head was tipped back, the joint moving back and forth between his lips.

Fai closed the door behind him, the slivers of light only drifting from the window and beneath the shut door. He stood in front of Yuui for a moment, placing the letter on the desk behind the pianist. "I've decided."

"Yeah?"

"We'll be Sacreds in the morning." The small box opened, and a silvery metal rectangle fell out, thudding against the carpet softly. "It's infrared."

The joint was passed. "You sure?"

"To the end."

"I've got Viagra."

"Will we need it?"

"Let's try not to."

Fai placed the video camera on the desk, and switched it on, hearing the soft thrum of the appliance as it zoomed to life. He kissed his twin. Without breaking the contact, he brought himself close and straddled Yuui's waist. He closed his eyes and let himself lose his mind in the high—from alcohol, from the pot, from the darkness. If he lost it, he would only feel phantoms of his brother's skin beneath his shirt, inside his pants.

_The Fluorite twins are beautiful_. Everyone always told them that. _The Fluorite twins are angels_. Everyone always insisted to them. _The Fluorite twins have it so easy._ Everyone always whispered behind their backs_. The Fluorite twins never have to work for what they want_. Everyone always gossips.

If they only knew.

_The Fluorite twins are about mind-fuck Everyone. _

* * *

On a beautiful Saturday morning, with just the earliest vestiges of winter in the air—sparkling frost on the grass, and dustings of snow on the tree branches—a video was racing through the Internet. A video so explicit that every site was immediately flagging it to be for eyes eighteen and older. Perhaps twenty-one and older. Perhaps for no eyes at all.

But this video was racing through cell phones—through every system of text there was. It was moving at the speed of light and sound multiplied into one, and at the same time, at the end of the video, there was an attached text. An attached email. An attached message.

**Fai and Yuui Fluorite have completed their Task.**

**Welcome to the Trinity, F and Y—you deserve it.**

* * *

_Ah, Fai and Yuui. _

_The talk of the town, these days. And it's perfectly understandable. I mean it's awfully regrettable you weren't around in my generation. The things we could've done…no? Well, I digress. I'm not one for letters, so I won't dally. I just have a quick few words to say, and then I'll start on your Task._

_People are supposed to be born with the minimal. Food, water, shelter, parents who love them, good health, and a sound mind. People are supposed to use these necessities to gain it for themselves and possibly a little more as a nice add-on. We aren't people. We're born with everything that any of these 'people' could ever dream to achieve. _

_So what are we supposed to do?_

_We take it to new heights. We're all individually compelled—whether by boredom, by amusement, by entertainment, by love, by hate, by revenge, by desire—to do certain things. But we're also compelled as a whole, and that's being compelled to violate everything that 'people' have named as violations. They name violations as violations because they don't know what it's like to already have everything. _

_Because as you know, having everything gets boring fast. We have nothing to entertain us after we hit the age of, well, the age you two are now. We've already done everything in the vicinity that moves, we've already smoked everything that's rolled up in joint form, we've already sniffed everything that's a powder (and maybe glue), we've already drunk everything that can be found from a winery in France and a drugstore in a ghetto. _

_So what now?_

_Well. Now, that we've smarted the little things—like underage sex, drugs, and drinking. Let's do something really illegal. It's our duty to entertain each other, after all. And not just illegal with the law—because that's boring. Let's do something illegal with everyone. Everyone who's 'people' at least. _

_How about you sleep with each other? _

_Oh. And tape it, of course. _

_I personally think I'm pretty lucky to have snagged you two before any of the other soon-to-be-graduates could. After all, I hardly think that any of them could've figured out a worthy Task. _

_Remember, now. The show must go on, and you're compelled to be nothing short of brilliant. Anything less, and you'll lose. Because when you've got everything to lose and even more to win, things get a little dangerous. But it's not like we can quit. _

_Quitting is stupid. Everyone out there wants to be here. Where we are. They want to be us, so don't tell me, you want to be them. It's said that humans never appreciate what they have, and it couldn't be truer. So let's not be too human, huh? Appreciate where you are and what you have. And make use of it. _

_Yuuto Kigai. _

* * *

_A/N: I have no words. _

_Except for the fact that I've only read one scene with Yuuto, so I'm not really sure if I got his voice right. That's all. _

_I need reviews for this sincerely messed-up chapter. _


	18. SOS

_ZOMGJESUSMARYJOSEPH, IT'S AN UPDATE. _

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: SOS

"Don't move," Hokuto said, pursing her lips in concentration. "If you keep fidgeting, I'm not going to be in the blame when something goes up the wrong hole." Her eyebrow instinctive quirked up as she narrowed her eyes and yanked the threads tighter, before jabbing the needle back in.

"Are you almost done?" Subaru asked warily.

Hokuto looked at him waspishly from around the left pant leg's hem. "Of course I am. Otherwise, we'd be late, wouldn't we? But we will be late if you don't leave me to my amazing skills. Besides, I can feel your nervousness wafting off of you. It's starting to pollute the air."

Subaru stilled. "Sorry."

She paused in her work, letting the needle dangle briefly. The designer straightened and stepped up onto the platform, eyes level with the musician's. Hokuto gave a small smile. "C'mon. Lighten up. You're going to have sex tonight."

He breathed a tiny chuckle. Infinitely sad in Hokuto's ears. "Yeah."

She tugged at his hair gently, and stepped back down. "Hey. Don't look like that. It'll get better, you hear me? Something'll happen, one way or the other. Nothing goes on like this forever. Something will _change_, and when it does—it does. 'Till then, just listen to yourself, 'kay?"

Subaru smiled sadly.

Hokuto rolled her eyes and pouted. "Seishiro's a loser. Forget about him. He sucks."

"I wish I could."

She snipped the thread with her teeth and threw away the excess. "I know. But before you do that, you have to give him more of his own medicine. He's got to learn that just because he's the Maestro, doesn't mean that everything will always fall according to plan. He's got to learn that _un-love_ isn't a word—much less, a _verb_—for a reason."

Subaru wrapped one hand around his wrist, hands swinging against his thighs. "Hm?" he said bemusedly.

Hokuto sighed. "Nothing. Just…" She straightened and looked up at Subaru again. "You're really good, y'know that?"

He just laughed quietly.

Hokuto thought that Seishiro was dead. Absolutely dead.

* * *

Mioru scowled. "That's not right. Say it again."

Kurogane squinted at him. "Yeah it is. It's right. So I'm not saying it again."

"It's _not_ right. So you _have_ to say it again."

"But it _is_ right, so I'm _not_ saying it again, damn it."

Mioru sat up from his knees a little higher and looked down at where Kurogane sat on the floor. "It's _my_ fucking SAT book, therefore I _know _what's in it, therefore I _know_ that's not right, which means I _got_ it right, which means you read it _wrong_, and thus you need to say it _again_."

Kurogane defeated Mioru's scowl with a rather more impressive one of his own. "Yeah, but _I'm_ the one reading it, so I _know_ that it's not wrong, because it's not in front of _you_, it's in front of _me_, and plus, I'm fucking horny and you won't let me bang you because of stupid SAT crap, so _there-fucking-fore_ I'm right by default, jackass."

Mioru sputtered for a bit. "If you had done it right the _first_ time, we wouldn't be having this, and we would be done faster and then I could _let _you bang me because we'd be done with this SAT shit, and _you're_ not allowed to fucking complain because I'm three times as horny as you are, so there, asshole."

"I did read it right the first time. Maybe you just didn't hear it right because you're so fucking horny, you whore."

"Or maybe you read it wrong like I've been telling you, because I fucking studied for six hours straight yesterday night, so if I get it wrong, that book's headed to the incinerator first thing tomorrow morning. And just because I'm horni_er_ doesn't mean I'm whore, you rapist."

Kurogane threw the book at the opposing wall and stood up, one knee pressing onto the edge of the bed. "Can we just fuck, instead? Now?"

"No." Mioru crossed his arms. "Absolutely not. I'm not going to fail. 'Cause no matter how fucking brilliant an athlete I am, there's no talent amount that's going to get me into the Holy Trinity if I fail like a retard, so you'd better get away from me and pick that fucking book up."

"When you called me to come over, you used your sex voice," Kurogane accused, squinting again. "You lied to me, so now you owe me."

Mioru sputtered again. "_What_ sex voice?"

"The one where it's all 'come fucking hither'—you know the one; the one you always use when you're being a cocktease. Like last week."

"My _allergies _were acting up."

"Oh." Kurogane shrugged. "Figures."

Mioru grabbed the collar of Kurogane's shirt. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The martial artist raised an eyebrow and shrugged again.

"Are you implying that my cocktease voice is sinus-y?" Mioru snarled, nose-to-nose with Kurogane. Kurogane merely looked bored. Mioru scowled deeper and pulled himself closer against the sophomore, letting his breath ghost over Kurogane's slowly smirking mouth.

After the martial artist had pulled the soccer player into and out of a kiss filled with tongue and saliva and teeth, he gripped Mioru by his hair and raised his other eyebrow. "You should review that part with analyzing data. Far as I can tell, you aren't that great at the whole conclusions thing."

"Fuck off."

"Huh. Sure."

* * *

Fai opened the door. He tilted his head to one side. "Why did you text me if Yuui was home or not?" The violinist watched Subaru shift his weight from one foot to the other on the slushy, snowy doorstep.

The trumpeter adjusted the strap of the duffle bag on his shoulder and looked up at Fai through dark, dewy eyelashes. "I thought…that now you're a Sacred, it doesn't matter as much if I told you. If you swear to keep it a secret." Subaru shut his eyes hard, his face tilted toward the ground. "I really need someone. Just telling you that I've got something to tell you…you can already tell Yuui and he'll tell Kamui…but I really want this. Please. So please don't."

Fai nudged the door open wider with the tip of his foot. "First's first. You should come in."

Slowly, hesitantly, Subaru unclosed his eyes and stepped past Fai. He was clutching the duffle bag beneath his arm like a lifesaver, knuckles white. Fai shut the door and watched Subaru—watched how the trumpeter stood, how he held himself up with his shoulders infinitesimally hunched and how it seemed that just standing physically hurt. He watched how Subaru barely took in the fact that he was inside the Fluorite twins' home for the first time—how the trumpeter's eyes were shadowed and veined with pink.

It was a look Fai had seen too many times in the mirror.

"Subaru," Fai said. "Subaru." His brow furrowed, and he folded his arms, fingertips just sliding out from the thick Fuki sweatshirt. "I don't know if this will have anything to do with what you want to tell me…but is something wrong?"

Subaru bit his lip and swallowed, looking at the ground again. "Can we go up to a room somewhere?"

"There's no one home, you know," Fai said quietly. "It's all right."

"Will anyone be home soon?"

Fai took a step toward him. "No. Kyle and Yuui both won't be back until sometime tomorrow morning. Kyle's at a convention, and Yuui might be sleeping over at Kamui's, actually."

The trumpeter breathed a little, "Oh."

Fai put an easing hand over Subaru's, gentling the strap out of his iron grip. "Yeah. Yeah? So relax, 'kay?" the violinist murmured, taking the duffle into his own hands and setting it on the granite coffee table. "Sit. D'you want a drink?"

Subaru collapsed onto the sofa nearest to him and turned onto his side, lying limp and silent. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them, teeth over his lip, hand curled against his throat as if he was going to be sick. "It hurts so much."

Fai fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Subaru's head. The violinist rested his cheek against the crown of dark hair. "Mm."

Subaru was quiet for another moment. Then, the sound of muted sobbing started to echo through the cavernous front room. Fai drew back slightly, so he could regain view of Subaru's expression—torn and broken and needing something that was so close it was within reach, but impossible to touch. "Letter," Subaru said, coughing into his arm, eyes closed and wet. "'S in…duffle. Read it."

Fai unzipped the bag and dug around, wrapping his fingers around the first piece of paper in reach. He unfolded the stiff parchment and scanned the words. It became clearer with every following sentence—partially clear, at least.

"But…" Fai frowned. "Subaru, I know it's hard, but I still don't—"

Subaru sat up, shuddering breaths heaving through his body. He silently unzipped his jacket, and then pulled his sweater and undershirt off in one go. They clothing dropped to the floor, and Subaru met Fai's eyes through the film of tears.

"Seishiro," Fai breathed. "But he…he couldn't—"

Subaru shook his head, hands covering his face.

"And _you_—"

The trumpeter brought his knees to his bare chest and buried his face in his arms, nodding blurrily.

"You still love him," Fai stated blankly.

The bundle of skin and hair and jeans that was Subaru didn't move.

"Kamui would have an aneurysm, Yuui would have a seizure, and then would both _murder_ him."

The hair part of the bundle moved in what Fai assumed was a nod, and a tiny sigh sounded from the midst of the curled up ball. "Subaru, Subaru," Fai said again intently. He was really concerned now. Like, really. This wasn't even open for discussion any more. This was something that if Fai told to anyone, hundreds of things that were just part of their daily everything could come crashing down. "Subaru. Would you like to stay the night?"

Subaru shook his head clumsily, gripping a fistful of hair. "I can't."

"I actually don't know when Kyle will come back," Fai said softly, stroking Subaru's tight knuckles, and taking the stressed hand from the soft black hair. The violinist petted the hair back into place carefully. "But he just left a few days ago, and conventions usually go for a week, so it'd be fine. I think it'd be really good if you stayed. You can borrow some of my clothes."

The trumpeter shook his head again, this time, more definitely. "I can't. I told myself that I'd just tell you so you can get me back and forth…'cause sometimes…sometimes I can't _walk_ that well afterward—"

"Subaru," Fai whispered. "_No._ No. _Hell _if that's all I'm going to do. You know that you can barely stay awake right now. You look like shit, too."

"Thank you," Subaru half-smiled. "For that lovely complement. But…it's actually not as bad as it looks. The cuts and bruises and stuff are really shallow. A lot of them I can hide with regular concealer. It's just the walking sometimes."

Fai didn't get it. Everything that was happening was going through a filter in his mind, and nothing was straining through. All that he thought he was being told was compiling into non-comprehensive forms in his brain. He didn't understand at all why Subaru would voluntarily put himself through his sort of pain and trauma. Why would he drive up nearly every other day to Seishiro's dorm just to—

Just to—

Just to get raped.

Why?

Why would he purposely put himself in a position that Fai had been forced to endure since he was old enough to remember?

Subaru glanced at Fai and then whispered, "I know. I know what you're thinking. It's stupid. And unnecessary, and everything's my own fault. I _know_. But I want this, and I have to do it."

Fai looked down at the letter in his hands again. He said, "But…but if you didn't have to, would you still…?"

"I think so," the trumpeter murmured. "Yeah."

Fai closed his eyes. He breathed in, and then out.

He opened his eyes. Took hold of Subaru's right hand. "Come on. You should be asleep right now. I don't know when the last time you went up to Akamizu was, but it's below zero outside, and you look like shit, so you're taking a bath and going to bed. I'll have something for you to eat when you wake up."

"I came straight from," Subaru said quietly. "Today was…it was short. But it was fast. And hard—strong." He swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and gauged Fai's expression.

Subaru felt hands come to hold both sides of his face; he felt lips press themselves firmly over his mouth, and closed eyelashes flutter against his wet cheekbones. "I'm sorry," he heard whispered. Subaru had always liked Fai's voice. It was soothing and soft and feathery to the ears. "It doesn't help, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry Seishiro is such a bastard."

Subaru laughed wetly. "Yeah. Me, too." He took Fai's wrists and pulled himself out of the violinist's grasp, throwing his arms around Fai's neck and burying his face in the blond's shoulder.

Fai wrapped his arms around Subaru's head and waist, in turn, and closed his eyes against the trumpeter's neck.

* * *

"So I had sex with my brother."

"I know."

"And I had a fight with Kamui that he'll never forgive me for."

"Oh."

"And then I still had the stupidity to tell my brother, whom I had sex with, that I'd be sleeping over at Kamui's, whom I fought, for an indefinite amount of time in order to get my thoughts out of chaos and into order."

"I see."

"Which is retarded because I am a whore, and sleeping with Fai made no difference to me whatsoever, since it was just another warm body, but I ran out like a coward because I'm a selfish jackass who doesn't want to be near the people who care about him because that's what selfish jackasses do."

"So I've heard." Doumeki calmly took a sip of his spiked tea.

Yuui was huddled on the step below the athlete, snuffing rocks with the tip of his sneaker, hood hiding his face and expression completely from all four cardinal directions. "I'm sorry I'm, like, stalking you. Watanuki hates me."

"No."

"He does. I can tell. He gives me that look."

"He looks at everyone like that. It's the way his face was built."

"If he heard that he'd kill you."

"Well, that's why I like him."

Yuui raised his head infinitesimally. "You're a freak."

"Uh huh." Doumeki nudged the small of the musician's back with a toe. "So. Are you done moping? Because our butler wants to finish sweeping the snow off of the steps, and I think my fingers are numb."

Yuui glanced at the soccer player from a mess of hoodie, hair, and bloodshot eyes. "I think your lips are blue, too."

"That's what the bespectacled spaz is for, 'member?"

"You're _really_ a freak."

"Uh huh." Doumeki stood up. "Oy. You're alive. 'S all there's to it. Figure it out, and in the mean time, suck it up. Something'll happen. Something always does. And when it does, you'll be sorry that you didn't like the time before that something happens."

"I didn't come here for a lecture," Yuui murmured, still unmoving.

"You didn't come here for pity, either." Doumeki snorted. "'Cause y'know I don't give that."

Yuui tossed his bangs out of his eyes—they slid back down anyhow. "You should try sometime. It makes you less of a freak."

"Uh huh. Sure. Now move it."

* * *

_A/N: This is the crappiest chapter ever, in my opinion, but a chapter's a chapter, and Unveiled and Impulse are close to follow. So, I suggest highly that you read one word every day, and by the time I update again, you'll have finished the chapter. Because that's how much KAT-TUN is currently tolling my brain. Since I no longer have the excuse of high school anymore. Although, there IS a plague going through my school. Swine flu, anyone? My little sister actually has it, but as so far, it's not that bad. She's not, like, on her deathbed or anything. Yet. Eh heh. _

_People at school are getting knocked out left, right, and center, but they'll be absent a week at most, and then come back perfectly fine. Then again, we might just all be really lucky. I've got the sniffles in intervals, but I'm never sick enough to get out of school. Sadly. Or happily, depending. _

_Speaking of which, did you know that the Odyssey is, like, basically a super twisted family sitcom? Dudes, I'm not even joking. We're up to book 22, and even though it's supposed to be some epic poem or whatnot, I personally think it's the funniest thing I've ever read. Odysseus is, like, TEHAWESOMEZSHIZ. For serious._

_On a graver note: IRP kills brain, and fangirls kill Seishiro. (What would you do if I told you that I'd love to write an Odyssey allegory using TRC characters? OR, better yet, if I said I'd write a JE universe thingy using TRC characters? .....or would Bleach be better for that....)_


	19. Red Light

Chapter Eighteen: Red Light

No one really knows why some things happen.

The way it's phrased is clichéd, because obviously, everyone who thinks just for the sake of thinking for even one literal minute, would figure out for his or herself that some things just happen because they happen. Whether it's because some force greater than all out there has an ironic sense of humor, and whether that greater force has a name or not, no one who is _in_ the midst of these happenings knows why they happen.

Sometimes, all it takes is a single, tiny error, and everything else goes disastrously wrong. It doesn't need to be on some grand scheme, with a flawlessly planned domino effect. It doesn't need to be anything like that. Just as no one really knows why somethings happen, no one really knows how large or how small an event has to be—a minor detail, a major occurrence—in order to offset the dominos, not only falling one on top of the other, but also knocking them off the table completely.

Your grandmother doesn't need to have cancer, and your mother doesn't need to be fighting with your father, and your brother doesn't need to be secretly selling drugs for you to know that something awful can happen to you in any minute. People who are aware of themselves and, thus, aware of their surroundings and what it means to be human in any day and age—_they_ know that something awful can happen to _anyone_ at any time.

But it can be hard to be aware of yourselves, or at least, be aware enough to know that you haven't matured into awareness yet, when no one has ever cared about raising your emotional age. When the people who have raised you only cared about your physical and mental age.

Perhaps, if phrased a different way, it would be more understandable.

Perhaps, you, whoever you are reading this, you need to put yourself in a place where you will probably never be, but your children (who knows how successful you will be in the future?) might very well be.

Because, imagine if you'd never been told that cheating was bad—that the only thing you did was cheat yourself. Instead, imagine that you just knew that if you weren't the most brilliant, your parents wouldn't love you.

Imagine, if your parents never told you to just try _your_ best. Imagine, if your parents had only ever told you that you had to be _the_ best.

Imagine, if teachers had never told you that the effort was all the counted. Imagine, if teachers had told you that without results, there was nothing to show for effort. And imagine, if instead of teaching you modesty, you were just told to make sure there was something to brag about.

Imagine, if your peers never sought anything from you but a victory—imagine if classmates were none else but people to defeat, to crush beneath you and make sure that they stayed there, because you had to trample people to make it to the top.

Imagine, if your parents never told you that you were beautiful because you were their child, and they would've loved you no matter how you were. Imagine, instead, that they only told you how beautiful you were because you were better looking than their social opponent's child.

Imagine, if your elder siblings saw you as nothing more than a possible threat to the inheritance. Imagine, if your younger siblings saw you as nothing more than something they needed to climb over to get what they believe was their rightful place as heirs.

And imagine, _imagine_, that you were never taught that the inside mattered just as much—if not more—than the outside. Imagine, instead, that you were taught that all that mattered was the outside—appearances.

Imagine, if you were told that it didn't matter what you had to do—whether it was killing, raping, threatening, blackmailing—as long as the outside world saw nothing but your perfect, pretty smile and the _money, money, money_ floating around you—

That was all that anyone should ask for.

When phrased like this, isn't it easier to understand?

If it isn't, then it will be. If you, the reader, read this and try, just try, to imagine a different way of life—a different childhood with different morals and different values—than perhaps, _perhaps_, you might be able to understand what my little butterflies do next.

Perhaps, you just might understand—or at least try to understand—how a teenager's mind works after the way they were all raised, and considering the way they still all think. Because if you were raised believing that you had to be the best, and then finally being told that you were, and always being told that you were beautiful and your parents had money, and as long as you had that nothing could hurt you—

Then you start to _believe_ that nothing could.

But some things happen. Humans are humans, and humans are vulnerable and indestructible all at the same time. It is much harder than one would think to kill a human, but it is also easier than the human thinks it is to be killed. When a human is faced with a danger that screams death at him, a danger that sets off the red lights in his mind and in his heart and in his body, the human will by all means, not hesitate to kill back. When danger—true danger—is present and imminent, humans are no more than animals—their instinct is to kill anything that might kill them.

At least, when dangers to humans were still only able to face humans face-to-face. Nowadays, clearly, animals and other humans are not the only dangers. Drugs and diseases do not face humans face-to-face. They stab men in the back.

And sometimes, the red light goes off too late.

* * *

_A/N: I don't count this as a real update. It's really just a kind of WARNING: COMPELLED IS STARTING TO END, THE CLIMAX IS APPROACHING PEOPLE thing. I guess you could also say it's super badly-written foreshadowing. Or attempted and failed foreshadowing. Whichever meets your cup of tea. But, I'm sure that at least 98 percent of you all know that Fuuka dies. The question is: How? _

_Guesses would be fun to hear. _

_So would reviews. Although, I'm not really asking for them here, because I'd understand that reviewing for this tiny-not-really-chapter is sort of ridiculous. _

_OH, and this chapter, (REMEMBER THIS PEOPLE, IT'S IMPORTANT) is basically Yuuko asking "the reader" to really commit all this to memory, because her telling "the reader" this now is her explanation of the way the characters will act in the chapters to come. (READ: IN OTHER WORDS, IT'S ME TRYING TO EARLY-JUSTIFY-SEISHIRO'S-BASTARDOUSNESS-TO-COME)._


	20. Whatever It Takes

Chapter Nineteen: Whatever It Takes

"Hey. Are you okay?"

Subaru wrapped the coat tighter around his body, determinedly looking straight ahead, watching the passing streetlights illuminate the snowflakes falling from the dark sky. If he didn't dwell on his thoughts—on the misgivings and doubt that would inevitably start blooming in his mind—then he wouldn't start crying. And it was important not to let even the beginnings of tears form—because he knew it would be an impossibility to swallow them back down.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Fai's arm reached across the seat and the violinist's fingers curled over Subaru's hand. "Hokuto did an amazing job. You look really good." He offered a small smile—just enough to ease the edges of Subaru's nerves. Subaru turned his eyes slowly and carefully toward Fai. _Fai_ was the one who looked really good. _He_ looked amazing.

Subaru just looked like a whore. Which was the point, so that was there. Fai looked amazing because they were going to a party, but Fai looked always amazing, anyhow. But maybe it was because Subaru had never went anywhere alone with Fai—especially not for something like this. Maybe Subaru had never had the chance to really pay attention to the violinist. He'd always felt and known that Yuui was Kamui's. And Fai had just always seemed like the package deal that came with the pianist. Subaru never thought he really should have anything much to do with them, because what would they ever want to do with him?

Fai especially. Since Yuui had always overprotected Fai, the pianist made it greatly seem as though Subaru just wasn't good enough to be with Fai. As though Yuui, Kamui, and Fai were all together, and Subaru was excluded, because he didn't know how to play with them—how to play the games _they_ liked to play. Perhaps, like a brother-friend complex.

But now, Subaru could really look at Fai—really look at Fai, always perfect and beautiful, and tonight even more perfectly and beautifully dressed in all black, making his skin whiter and his hair fairer and his eyes bluer and his face finer and his body more delicate and his air more enticing.

"Usually it's my hands that're cold, but yours are freezing," Fai said, eyebrows furrowing and holding Subaru's hand tighter. Somehow, Fai could make any expression, but it would still come off as a smile.

Subaru laughed nervously, looking down. "Oh. Sorry."

"How come you're apologizing?" Fai nudged Subaru's ankle with his foot. "When it comes to someone like you, when something bad happens around, it'll probably never be your fault. Someone like you shouldn't have to apologize that much in life."

Subaru slid down in his seat a little. "What d'you mean?" He shook his head, still staring into his lap, laughing in a way that sounded more like sobbing to his own ears. "Someone like me. Someone like me should be apologizing a whole lot."

Fai leaned forward and looked up at Subaru from an angle. The same you'd do to a child to make sure they were focused on you. Subaru felt the tips of his ears warm. Fai grinned. "The fact that you say that is precisely _why_ someone like you shouldn't be apologizing."

Subaru felt his shoulders shake on their own. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself—he'd thought that he could look at Fai, but if he did now, he'd probably burst into tears. And as if Fai was thinking along the same lines, the violinist said, "Hey. You aren't going to cry right?" Fai's slender fingers tilted Subaru's chin up, and Subaru was met with perfectly shaped pools of blue. The violinist smiled again. "If you're eyes are red, it'll defeat the purpose a bit. And we worked so hard—you look so good."

The trumpeter took a deep breath. "You look good." It came out too soft and it came out sounding untrue—as if Subaru was just washing out words. But then again, most of what Subaru tried to say to the Fluorite twins sounded that way. And since it was usually Yuui Subaru was trying to complement, his complements usually were snapped right back at him with an insult for being a suck-up.

But there was a tiny part of Subaru that thought maybe Fai was different. After all, one thing Subaru knew from being a twin was that just because your twin was you, didn't mean you were your twin. How that was supposed to make sense, Subaru didn't know, because really, it wasn't supposed to make sense. Being a twin didn't make sense at all, in Subaru's opinion—you just had to accept it as it was. Being a twin was just being a twin. And sometimes, twins were more different than was good for them.

"Me?" Fai said teasingly. "Who cares about me tonight? When you go in, everyone will be staring at you. You'll be a Sacred quick and easy by the end of the night, and then you can go up and slap Seishiro right across the face and _then_, the bastard will fall all over himself trying to get you back."

Subaru couldn't help it this time. He laughed. He laughed full-blown and whole-hearted for the first time in so long that he couldn't even remember the last time he'd laughed like this. He laughed for as long as it could last, because he knew that when he stopped it would come back to him the reason for his laughter. The reason that the thought of Seishiro falling over himself for anything—least of all trying to get Subaru back, when the Maestro would love to be rid of the trumpeter—made him laugh was because it was so completely unimaginable. Impossible.

Subaru looked at Fai after he'd calmed down. "I don't think that'll ever happen—I don't know why it _would_."

Fai's eyes were imperceptible now. The way he looked at Subaru wasn't even so much of a gaze rather than a machine scanning for data. "You really don't see, do you?"

"I don't get—" Subaru's expression furrowed.

"You're the only person insane enough to really, truly love the Maestro," Fai said simply. "And even if Seishiro definitely isn't the kind of person to just take what he can get, he is the kind of person that'll fall in love when both he and everyone else least expects it. I'm pretty sure if you didn't really, truly love him, he wouldn't love you."

"Wait, wait, wait," Subaru said, putting a hand on Fai's arm. "Um, I think you're getting this mixed up. Seishiro _doesn't_ love me, remember?"

The violinist stared at the trumpeter for a moment. And then Fai laughed. "Subaru, have you ever noticed that the people Seishiro really loves to hurt are the ones he cares about? And that the more shit he gives them, the more he loves them?" Fai cocked his head. "As messed up as that is."

Subaru's eyebrows went deeper. Confused. "He loves you and Yuui—and he never treats you like shit."

"Not the kind of love he loves you with," Fai said gently. "He's a bastard, but trust me on the fact that he loves you."

In a tiny voice, looking into his lap again, Subaru added, "_I_ never thought he was a bastard."

Fai looked amazed at the trumpeter. He had never before honestly regarded Subaru in any way at all—Subaru had always sort of been like the random tree figure in the background. But perhaps that was the reason Fai should have paid attention to him. While Kamui and Yuui went off to play (at clubs and with the bodies of boys and girls twice their age), Fai was just like Subaru. Always in the backdrop.

But this was unreal in so many ways. Was it even _legal_ to not think Seishiro was a bastard? Wasn't that built into one's genetic make-up or something? It wasn't that Fai didn't understand how Subaru could think this way—it was just that Fai couldn't comprehend why the trumpeter _did_.

Though it was true, Seishiro has always treated Fai and Yuui specially, but Fai, even though not at his best game during those months, Fai had still very clearly remembered a period of time where Seishiro treated Subaru far _more_ specially. Fai even remembered weekend nights when Yuui would come into the car sulking because Seishiro had completely ignored an invitation to go out and play, in place of having Subaru spend the night.

And just because that never happened anymore didn't mean that Fai believed Seishiro didn't love Subaru anymore. Fai knew that Seishiro was the sort of person that loved fully and wholly and only loved once. Although, the violinist also believed that Seishiro was the sort of person who would be scared shitless when he found out he was in too deep. And even now, even knowing what Seishiro had done—and would probably continue to do for a while more—to Subaru, Fai still believed that Seishiro loved the trumpeter.

Yes, it was psychotic and kind of disturbing.

Yes, it was wrong.

Yes, in no way should Subaru easily forgive Seishiro.

And yes, of course Fai would set a Doberman on Seishiro when this was all over.

But love was love. And no matter how messed up and disgusting and hellish and abhorrent normal people would insist this was—insist that Subaru should completely just disregard and forget about Seishiro, perhaps even insisting that what Seishiro had toward Subaru and what Subaru had toward Seishiro couldn't even _be_ considered love—no matter all of that—

In their world, it was still love.

And in their world, if you found love anything close to this, you had better fucking hold on to it with every-fucking-thing you had.

* * *

Tonight was the Maestro's Christmas party. And tonight, royalty was attending.

It was Touya Kinomoto's first return from the Holy Trinity, and just that was all the more reason to get wasted and shitfaced. Of course, at his side from the moment he walked through the door to the minute he disappeared into one of the Maestro's house's bedrooms was Yukito Tsukishiro. Perhaps, the dancer's return was to be even more celebrated, due to the fact that not at all unbeknownst to a single person, Touya had more than completely kidnapped Yukito right from under the media's hands, as tonight, on Christmas Eve, Mr. Tsukishiro was supposed to be doing an interview about his latest performance and soon-to-be music video.

But it was Christmas Eve, and who was the press to cheat the King out of his most loyal subject? Or perhaps a more accurate term would be consort?

And of course, taken or not, Touya looked every inch the king of society. Yukito looked just his part, if not more, as well. Then again, there was one more reason that gave the king and his partner to be as eager to be in town aside from the holidays.

Everyone knew how much the king loved his princess.

His little darling sister princess who was just now old enough to be at these parties. His little darling sister princess who was so very present and pretty and fair and flushed tonight, hanging on the arm of her prince-intended, who perhaps was not the prince the king would've intended for her.

Seishiro kicked Touya's ankle, all the while calmly swirling the golden champagne around in his flute. He, the so-called hard-headed, moronic, "king", and Yukito were all somewhat gathered at the center of attention, the center of the living room, near the fireplace, with Seishiro on one end of the sofa, and Touya and Yukito at the other.

At the sound of Touya cursing, Yukito turned his head (Touya was between Seishiro and Yukito, otherwise the conductor would've already had something to grope by now), and blinked at Yukito from behind his glasses. "He doesn't mean it," the dancer said. "He's trying his best not to glare at Sakura and Fuuka."

"Well," Seishiro sipped his drink. "Try harder. People are supposed to enjoy themselves at my parties, and your glooming is starting to permeate the air. It's not good for me."

Touya's cursing died down to a dull, grumpy, mumble. His arm curled around Yukito's waist tighter—it'd been tightening until Yukito nearly slipped from the heightened ledge of the sofa that he'd been perched upon. Touya's face, currently level with Yukito's lap, buried itself in the corner of the dancer's torso. "You know," the conductor went on mercilessly, "if it'll make you feel better and stop having sullen fits, then you can shag Yukito again. I'll even join myself, if you want."

The athlete lifted his head and glared. "You're repulsing."

Yukito petted Touya's hair sympathetically.

Seishiro raised his glass. "Merry Christmas to you, too."

"Dude," Touya's voice was serious now. "That's not even funny anymore. I've heard people talking about how they've seen that Sumeragi trumpeter kid going in and out from your dorm. What're you doing to him now? 'S he like your sex friend? I know he's not the kind of guy to do that willingly." Yukito had withdrawn both hands from Touya—the dancer was looking away quietly. "Why do you have to be such a bastard?" Touya said, for some reason, his face frustrated.

Seishiro leaned his head back. "It's not your problem." His eyes found Touya again. "You may be king," he smiled slightly—icily and perfectly. "But I'm the Maestro."

At moments like these, Seishiro had no problem meeting gazes with someone like Touya—people like Touya were always challenging and criticizing Seishiro in such openness. But at moments like these, the sorts of gazes Seishiro wordlessly tried to avoid were gazes like Yukito's.

The dancer was simply sitting there, looking like the king's perfect little play-pet. And all the while staring down the Maestro with a precision and accuracy that more than described the way he danced. Yukito gave a tiny toss of his head, whipping his bangs out of his eyes, and raised his eyebrows lightly at Seishiro.

Touya bounded to his feet, and without looking at Seishiro again, simply left. As soon as his back was disappearing into the crowd, Yukito slid off from the armrest and right up against Seishiro's side. The dancer wordlessly took Seishiro's flute right from his hands and sipped softly from it. Seishiro smiled as he reaccepted his glass. "Have I told you how perfect you look tonight? I haven't seen you in a while, and I still want to do you."

Yukito just smiled brightly—a kindergarten teacher's smile. "Of course you do."

"But," Seishiro sighed dramatically, "instead, you've gone and run with a caveman who doesn't even know how to use his hands, so he uses his feet and kicks a spherical object of no consequence around all day."

The bright kindergarten teacher's smile never faltered. "No. He certainly knows how to use his hands."

Seishiro's fingers crept beneath Yukito's thigh. "I know how to use my hands _better_."

With all the fluidity of a dancer, Yukito was suddenly on the other side of the couch again. "I'm sure you do. But I think that a certain trumpeter would appreciate that more than I ever could." His smile died down a little bit. The dancer's smiles, Seishiro had noticed long ago, were always so different from Fai and Yuui's and his own. The Maestro had taught the twins to smile no matter what, but although Yukito couldn't always be found smiling, when he did, it was bright and honest. As blinding as the Fluorites, but without the lies.

Yukito's eyes were challenging now. "I also think, that this certain trumpeter would also appreciate if you used that amazing skill you say your hands have, rather than the skills of your fists."

There was an urge to rip off the dancer's glasses and stomp on them. Seishiro continued to smile. "If he didn't come back, then he could appreciate new skills of new people."

Yukito folded his arms in his lap neatly. "But he doesn't want that. Because even if you insist on just using the skills of your fists, he'd rather take that than none of you at all. I guess he just really appreciates any skills you show him, no matter what they are."

"Shouldn't you be skipping back to your Royal Highness, right about now?" Seishiro focused on his drink again. "Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble with the almost-prince?"

"Maybe I should." Yukito stood. "I haven't seen the new arrivals, either. I think Fai's come already. You should probably greet him."

Seishiro watched dancer leave with narrowed eyes. It was true that he'd heard a small uproar near the foyer earlier on before Touya stomped away, but Fai and Yuui usually snuck in with a _full-scale_ uproar.

Nevertheless, the Maestro stood, drink in hand, and slipped his way through the crowd, greeting people and briefly exchanging 'Merry Christmases' along the way, moving upstairs to get a better overhead view of exactly who just entered the house and why everyone was so drunk that they were midway between getting into a tizzy about it and not caring at all.

He leaned against the railing and scouted the throng of people near the entryway. There was a vaguely defined ring and two people at the center of it—clearly the entrants. His eyes narrowed again, straining to see and identify. One of them was certainly Fai—angelically windswept fair hair. The other…it couldn't be Kamui? Unless Fai was actually Yuui, and he'd come with Kamui? Although, last he'd checked, those two were catfighting. And last he'd checked, he could still pretty easily tell the twins apart.

Seishiro was reluctant to squint, but he would if he had to. However, he was just preparing to go downstairs when Fai-who-was-really-probably-Fai nudged the dark-haired young man beside him, and they simultaneously looked up, right at Seishiro.

The moment Seishiro met the eyes of that slender figure draped in folds and folds of a trench coat, Seishiro thought that he really was starting to get what he deserved. Or that things really were starting to fall apart—that nothing was what it should be any more. And the time it took for Fai to smile (because now it surely was Fai), was the same amount of time it took for Subaru to take off the trench coat and for everyone, including Seishiro, to nearly have an epilepsy. Again.

Because it turned out that it was actually possible to somehow top Subaru's last ridiculously un-Subaru-and-completely-out-of-character outfit. It was actually possible. Possible, when the present outfit was tighter than leather, and held close to his skin than leather, because it was silk.

From the lighting angle, it was easily told that it was pure, genuine Chinese silk, and that was everything that traditional Chinese clothes shouldn't be, because first off, they were traditional Chinese girl clothes, and second of all, the only person to make a respectable cultural tradition look like that was Hokuto. And the only person who could make female clothes on a male body look natural and not the slightest bit whorish was Subaru.

Yuui and Fai didn't count, because they could make a tracksuit look whorish.

And Seishiro's un-blown horn really couldn't afford to be thinking in that direction.

Because even though Subaru's eyes averted the Maestro's straightaway, Fai did not. His gaze was unrelenting at the conductor, and when Seishiro raised a questioning eyebrow, it was completely obvious what Fai's message was—with a tilt of his head towards the trumpeter.

"_All this could've been yours."_

However, there was an unintended message somewhere deeper in there, too, and Seishiro didn't think that Fai himself knew he was giving it off—not just to the Maestro, but to everyone. Because this was Fai's first public appearance as a Sacred.

"_If I can fuck my brother, don't you think that I can fuck with all of you, too?"_

At the least, Seishiro knew that even if not for accomplishing becoming a Sacred, the task did Fai good in terms of how their peers saw him. Because Fai did deserve everything he got. Fai could do things for himself—Fai didn't need to ride on Yuui's coattails. Fai didn't need to hold Ashura's hand.

Fai would do whatever it took to take whatever he wanted.

And it seemed that right now, Fai wanted Subaru to learn to do the same.

* * *

_A/N: If I were to express in words in this author's note about how pathetic I feel for not updating in so long, and how pathetic-er I feel about not updating because of moving from NewS to KAT-TUN to Kanjani8 to Arashi to Hey!Say!JUMP to Big Bang and now to Super Junior......then I'd be writing another entire chapter just about my pathetic-osity. _

_So instead, of expressing my patheticness, since I'm sure you all know how pathetic I am, I'll just let you revel in the update-ness (I stayed up until 2 am to finish this in time for Christmas, since I thought that the least I could do is give you some semblance of a Christmas present, even if you celebrate some other holiday or even none at all, because I've been so pathetic lately, and in the Secrets-verse it IS Christmas...so...yeah. Oh, and about Subaru's outfit, think that thing that Fei Long made the main character in the Loveprize Viewfinder manga. Y'know, the slutty Chinese dress thingy....er...I'm sounding weird. Well, I hope if you're Chinese and reading thise you don't think I'm insulting your culture, because I'm Chinese Indonesian.)_

_In any case, I'll stop rambling because I should go to bed before I get really slap happy, especially since I'm already relieved completely that I've finally updated and I'm hoping that no one has quit, hates me, refuses to review because it's been so long it's ridiculous, or thinks this is a crappy chapter even though it is. _


	21. Until It's Gone

Chapter Twenty: Until It's Gone

It was strange what simple changes in surroundings could make you feel. Under an influence of dim lightings and loud music, where it was difficult to hear your own thoughts, let alone compose them enough into some semblance of sense, it was more often than not how tiny decisions turn into grievous errors. Meaning, humans never found it surprising that the worst of choices they end up making for themselves happen when the distracting heat of bodies pressed all around you, when sweet cloying liquid played at your mind, when a mass of voices and beating music clawed at your ears and trembled through your body.

In one word and sense—

At a party.

And Subaru found himself taking advantage of just that in order to lose his humiliation and gather up enough courage, for the second time even if it felt like the first, to go up to someone whose life wasn't fucked up, but was about to be after the night was over all because Subaru wanted to be a Sacred.

He found himself finally leaving Fai's side after being pushed into moving against the stiffness that froze his entire body at the stares and silence of the audience he knew he'd have the second he walked through the door. He found his feet leading him subconsciously through the crowds, searching for his target tonight—searching for the unfortunate soul whose name was next and last listed on his letter.

He found himself, as he made his way through the throngs upon throngs of people, grabbing any glass left on any table and throwing back any alcohol in reach. He needed to be drunk to have enough confidence for this—to have anywhere close to enough nerve and courage. Otherwise, if there was even the slightest misgiving or mishap, everything he'd done up till now would have been for nothing. Hokuto would be disappointed and Subaru would've fucked everything up like he always did.

Just one time, just once, he wanted to do something right. He wanted to do something that, were it not for the circumstances, would make Yuui stop looking down on him, and most of all, would make the Maestro proud.

And for all those reasons, Subaru found himself, at last, stopping in front of Mioru Aoi, the soccer star who was leaning against a corner, surrounded by his teammates, and grabbed the athlete by the collar, pulling him into a kiss—pulling him out of the corner.

Pulling him and pulling him and pushing him and holding him and groping him and not once breaking the kiss.

To say the least, there was no reluctance on Mioru's part from the moment their lips met. The athlete's wiry-muscled arms wrapped around Subaru's waist and soon enough, Mioru was guiding the musician, banging him against the walls with lustful force, curling fingers into his black hair, and leading him on and on sightlessly towards the first empty bedroom on their path.

And through all of this, through Subaru's completely inebriated mental state, all Subaru could think of was how Kurogane You-ou was going to be either furious or furiously heartbroken, and how Subaru was a bastard for causing more shit between these two athletes who, rumor had it, had just gotten their shit straight very recently.

It would be all his fault if Kurogane and Mioru broke up again, or fought again, or spent sleepless nights wondering again. Subaru knew nothing about these two people, only that their lives were perfectly fine and their talents reaching to the skies, and now Subaru had brought all of that down just because he wanted to become a Sacred. There was no forgiving and no chance of ever making something like this up. Subaru knew that. He knew that he was a bastard. And it was things like this that made him wonder why anyone dared call Seishiro a bastard and Subaru the victim without knowing anything about the things Subaru had done.

If even one person saw how Subaru really was, there would be no doubt in that person's mind that Subaru was far more of a bastard than Seishiro ever could be. Seishiro had perfectly justified reasons, in Subaru's eyes, to do whatever he wanted to Subaru, be it beatings or rape, because Subaru had simply intruded upon Seishiro's life without rhyme or reason, simply thinking that Seishiro loved someone like Subaru.

So Subaru closed his eyes and let Mioru's warm hands, rough fingers—callused from training, but gentle in touch, the extreme opposite of Seishiro's smooth fingers with cold, cruel holds—roam all over his body. He closed his eyes and listened as Mioru undid the clothes Hokuto made, the snaps snapping open and the ties ruffling undone. He closed his eyes and sighed and gasped along with the beat of Mioru's heart, right against Subaru's own chest. He closed his eyes and twined his arms around Mioru's neck. He closed his eyes and arched his body when Mioru swung his hips, thrusting into Subaru for the first time.

He closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them, he would be a Sacred and maybe, _maybe_, he'd have even the tiniest worth in the Maestro's eyes.

* * *

_Su-ba-ru!_

_That's right, lucky boy. You got picked by me to be a Sacred. If that isn't lucky, you can't even know what luck is. But you do know, because you definitely feel the loving luck, right? Of course you do, you lucky boy you. But anyway, we should probably be getting down to business, huh? I mean, I'm a busy girl. Clothes to design, boys to entice, people to scam…you know how it is, don't you?_

_Though really, hon, what the hell are you doing these days? It's like my cousin bought you from a slave trader. Why the fuck are you letting him treat you like this? Anyone else but me would've interfered by now with all their panicking nonsense, but you're hell lucky that it's me who's found out. I know that it's none of my business and you're a big boy, but if you're such a big boy, shouldn't you let my dearest cousin know that, too?_

_Because, y'know, I don't really think he does._

_So maybe…_

_You should show him?_

_There's the saying that people never know what they have until it's gone. And Subaru, that's one of the damn truest sayings you'll ever come across. It's also something that I hope you'll never have to learn through your experiences as a Sacred. Because, honestly, I've seen at least four too many people during my highlight days as a Sacred going through mountain-loads of shit before finally learning this. _

_As a Sacred, you'll be given everything you want the minute you ask for it, and you'll find that there's nothing people won't stoop so low as to do for you. It's truly the situation of, when you tell them to jump, they won't even ask how high. They'll just jump and jump and never stop jumping until they've jumped high enough or long enough or hard enough. _

_But there'll be some people, while you're a Sacred, who'll do anything they can to keep a reign over you, because you're power makes their power greater. It's as easy as first grade addition. Adding the power you've got to the power they have makes for even bigger power. And they'll use any kind of bondage to keep you there—whether it's emotional, mental, or physical. _

_And sometimes, you have to wake up, smell the roses, and get your shit together so you can stuff it in their face. Because to get where you are now wasn't an easy task, and I know that. I already know that, but there are lots of people who still don't and you have to show them that. You have to show them because most people out there are retards and don't understand how much they'll miss the beautiful and perfect and kind and soft and sweet and gentle Subaru Sumeragi until he's gone._

_But most of all, this is for you._

_You have to learn to take things into your own hands so that you don't miss anything until it's gone. So that you can save something before it disappears right from your fingers. _

_Because when you're a Sacred, once it's gone—_

_It's gone._

_--Hokuto_

* * *

Mioru looked at his cell phone, opening the newly received text message and just after a glance, he was able to turn back to the waking dead that was lying beside him on the bed to say, "You're a Sacred now. Be happy. And maybe alive, too, would be nice." He watched as the pretty, pretty, naked boy, lying curled on his side with wet eyes and sweat beading his body, shook his head profusely.

As soon as the sex had ended, the boy, Subaru, had began apologizing and crying and hiccupping all at the same time, while Mioru was still attempting to rack his brains together from the mind-blowing orgasm that pale body had just caused him in order to form a coherent answer that wouldn't make him sound like a retarded jock. Especially considering that this kid was probably some trumpeting prodigy. Or something of the sort. He was the Maestro's fuck buddy, after all, and you _had_ to be talented at something for that.

Just past an hour, however, Subaru had begun to thank Mioru through the heart-wrenching, Hollywood-worthy tears, and all Mioru could do in his stunned mind was hand the poor kid tissues. Most of him felt like he should hug Subaru or offer some sort of comfort, but the rest of him was for some reason afraid to touch Subaru. As if anything could make the kid cry harder.

Also, Mioru wanted to know if it was a curse someone put on the kid to make him so adorable that someone a year younger had enough nerve and instinct to _call_ him "kid".

Really, if Seishiro was pulling some sort of crappy wool over this kid's eyes, the conductor had another thing coming. Because honestly, Subaru should just leave and get one of the thousands of people waiting in line to treat him better. Then again, it felt like the sort of thing the Maestro would do to someone like Subaru.

"Um," Mioru cleared his throat, snapping his phone shut. "Are you going to be, erm, okay?"

Subaru nodded, and hiccupped. Again.

"Um." Mioru coughed again just because. "You know that, erm, I'm not mad at you or, erm, anything, right?"

Subaru gave another miserable nod, still not meeting the athlete's eyes.

"And, well, um, you know that when Kurogane gives me crap about this which I know he will and should—you know that it's none of your fault, right? And that I'm glad you became a Sacred? You can put in a good word for me and stuff, then, y'know?" Mioru finally couldn't stand the pitiful tiny sobs and lack-of-eye-contact. He flattened himself on his stomach, right against the bed, and pillowed his chin in his arms, looking eye-to-eye with Subaru, inches from the trumpeter's tear-streaked face. "Right?"

The musician hiccupped again a bit, but the pink lips slowly turned up in the tiniest, baby smile Mioru had yet to see. "Yeah," Subaru whispered with that same smile.

"You're really good at sex, y'know that?" Mioru raised his eyebrows, wagging them up and down. "Like, super duper good. And usually, I don't even like to top."

Subaru laughed then, a beautiful whispered laugh through leftover tears. "Thanks. You're good, too."

"Better than the Maestro?" Mioru teased.

The smile faded a little at the edges. "I'm not sure anymore. The Maestro hasn't…um…he hasn't really tried to be good at sex with me for a long time. So I can't judge."

Mioru wasn't sure what finally prodded him into doing it, but his hand moved and landed on the side of Subaru's head, petting the tousled hair down carefully. "What's the bastard been doing to you anyway? Everyone's talking about it, you know."

"Nothing that he doesn't have the right to, and nothing I probably don't deserve," Subaru said quietly, voice beginning to tremble.

"What the hell could you possibly deserve that hurts you?" Mioru asked, eyebrows furrowing. "Y'know, you told me earlier about the letter and how people don't realize how much they need something until it's gone. Well, there're some people who _can't_ realize how much they need something or someone until it's gone. And sometimes that's the only way they'll learn."

Subaru was silent for only a moment before saying, "I think I'm too scared to try that. Because I'm more than sure that once I'm gone, he's just going to move on. I'm pretty sure he _wants _me gone, and I'm just being retarded and holding on for as long as I can."

Mioru snorted. "What insane jackass would ever want you gone?"

The trumpeter laughed again—a prettier laugh that rang around the dim room. For the first time, he reached out a hand and touched Mioru back—pale fingers wrapping around the athlete's forearm. "Kurogane must really love you."

"I don't think so," Mioru said, leaning his head against Subaru's shoulder. "Not anymore. Not much at least. And even if he does, he's too fed up with me."

"He should," Subaru said firmly. "You're kind."

Mioru snorted again. "You need to be around me more. I'm in no way kind. I'm probably second-in-line to the Maestro in being a bastard. Worst of all, I don't think it's possible for me to change."

"You're kind right now." Subaru looked at him through dark lashes.

"Just to you," the soccer player grinned. "'Cause you're too cute."

The trumpeter pushed at him, laughing lightly. "Thanks."

* * *

_Subaru Sumeragi is now a Sacred._

_Welcome to the Trinity, S._

_Blow that horn._

* * *

_A/N: NO, REALLY. 'TIS AN UPDATE._

_I'm so epic fail that it takes like three feet of snow and no school for a week for me to finally get another chapter up, but this is the chapter that finally gets things moving (finally) so I'm really happy it's up, and I actually think that I did a rather all right job. Not fantastic, but not too shabby either. _

_But I'm going to stop talking before I start sounding like a 1940's husband. _

_On the other hand, how was that double release for that KAT-TUN PVs, eh? Autotune suits them, strangely enough, eh? _

_(U-Kiss's "Bingeul Bingeul" is also rather catchy, and Kevin actually looks like a guy now!)_

_For those of you who think I've gone insane, just ignore the ramblings of a Kpop/Jpop obssessed freshman. _

_But if any of you are just wondering, or maybe I just like explanations too much, of why Mioru can't ever seem to be this nice to Kurogane while they were still together, it's 'cause some people really act differently around different people (like me e_o) and Mioru's the kind of person who'll act rough around people who act rough and are temperamental. But around Subaru and Senryuu (who's actually a lot like Subaru, only with testosterone), Mioru acts instinctively gentler because they're gentle, quiet people. _

_(2PM's Beer CF drama-like thing with Yoon Eun Hye--if I spelled her name right--is also awesomely amazing)_


	22. Curiosity

Chapter Twenty-One: Curiosity

Nowadays, it wasn't a rare thing for Yuui to be MIA whenever Fai was at home. Once inseparable, Fai knew that even Kyle had learned that the twins interchanged being in the same place. If Fai was home, then Yuui wasn't, and if Yuui was home, then Fai wasn't. If Fai had to stay late at school, then Yuui left early, and if Yuui had to stay late, Fai left early. The violinist himself wasn't sure why this pattern started nor how it started, but he knew that it wasn't for awkwardness. And it wasn't for bitterness or shame or anything mundane like that.

And after a week or so of this, Fai was beginning to think that it wasn't him and Yuui. It was just Yuui who was doing this. Because Fai had made conscious efforts to, y'know, actually be within a few meters radius of Yuui, but Yuui had fled every single time—either staying at Doumeki's, or presumably Kamui's, and/or maybe even Ashura's.

Even then, Ashura hadn't seemed to be fazed at all that the boyfriend had just slept with the brother. However, Ashura was friends with Seishiro. And stuff like that explained a lot.

Either way, Fai felt these days as though perhaps it was for the better Yuui seemed to be avoiding him. If not, the pianist might have had a not-so-small fit of outrage or disbelief or possibly a heart attack at what had become a new factor of Fai's daily nightmare.

Fai glanced up to the doorway from where he sat on the bed in one of the house's many spare rooms. A young man, younger than Fai even if taller, with hair so dark and at the same time so blond, it glinted like rusted gold; and with eyes that were gentle like light and sharp like a cat's. The young man paused at the doorway, knuckles whiter than paper as he tightened his grip on his book bag.

The violinist smiled quietly. "Did you get detention or something, Senryuu?"

"No. I had to go to practice." The martial artist returned the smile breathlessly and somewhat ashamedly. "How long was I?"

Fai shrugged, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing the cloth to the ground. "Not very. I just wanted to make sure we had enough time before Kyle got home. You know that he only gives discounts if it's done before he's back, and you don't get your allowance till next week, right?"

Senryuu let his book bag down beside the bed with a soft thud. He faced the floor, hair covering his eyes and said in a small voice, "Sorry."

Fai raised his eyebrows, gently amused, and wrapped his thin fingers around the athlete's sturdy wrist. "Why? I just don't want you to be in debt with Kyle—it's awful, trust me. C'mon, get in. We don't have much time, and I want you to tell me about your week."

* * *

Fuuka tugged his scarf tighter around his mouth. He could see his breath fogging in front of him even with the slight up in temperature this past week. Kurogane had yelled at him again for having to leave early, and the sophomore had run out of the studio within an inch of his life (that inch being the inch between the water bottle Kurogane had thrown at him and his own head). Then again, he and Senryuu were both more than used to Kurogane's spontaneous tantrums, which actually weren't so spontaneous if one paid attention to the daily gossip.

And since it just so happened that the daily gossip was on the details of precisely how Subaru Sumeragi finally accomplished becoming a Sacred, Kurogane seemed even more irate than when the daily gossip usually featured Mioru Aoi. Then again, Fuuka only ever received word of what happened through passing bystanders that spoke too loudly or made it a point to speak loudly whenever he was around to either purposely make him feel excluded or to make him feel as though he didn't know anything that happened.

It'd been made a point at the rehab center that as long as he was still on assisting medication that he shouldn't go to parties that he knew weren't going to be absolutely drug or alcohol free, and since around this community and around these peers meant that a party without alcohol, drugs or sex meant it wasn't even a party, Fuuka had been spending a lot of time at home, brushing up on his martial arts—something he'd missed for the time he'd been in Italy.

He looked down again to once more check the address written on the Post-It note in his hand. Kyle had told him to pick up his medicine from the doctor's house after the doctor had returned from his convention out of town, but the Li family's maid had accidentally assumed Fuuka's last batch of pills were suicide material and in a state of alarm informed Mr. and Mrs. Li, only to have them kindly reassure her and remind her that they were not a method of suicide Fuuka/Syaoran were planning to use.

But by then, the maid had already flushed half of the pills in her state of alarm, so Fuuka was going to Kyle's house early to pick up his next round of medicine. The doctor had always told Fuuka that in a state of emergency, if there ever was to be any, the martial artist's medicine would always be waiting for him on a small, black metal table next to the door of Kyle's study on the second floor. He'd also pointed out to Fuuka that the second floor was where all the bedrooms were, and that the bedroom doors were always open so Fuuka wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable knocking around trying to figure out which room was which.

True, Kyle had expressively told Fuuka not to come by uninvited, but the martial artist was sure that the doctor or the twins wouldn't mind if he simply popped in and out unnoticed. The front door was usually left unlocked, and the Fluorite twins were known for their plentiful social life, meaning the house would be empty anyhow.

Fuuka walked up the long, winding pathway through the trees, the outline of the white mansion visible just through the snow-laden branches. He thought that maybe if he hurried, he could catch the last half an hour of practice and save Senryuu from having to bear the force of Kurogane's wrath alone. But that called for a ride back to the school, and as Fuuka saw it, after four, their chauffeur was Syaoran's until seven, when Fuuka's twin finished soccer practice.

Um.

He knew that he could ask Sakura for a ride, since the gymnast was excused out of class a period early to start practice, and thus, ended her practice at five, but that would mean he'd have to bring Sakura in with him to Maikeru, and there would be the inevitable staring and possibly some hollering and hooting. Plus, Touya might turn Fuuka into a lampshade if the soccer player found out that the martial artist had dared to bring his sister within the walls of an all-boys' school.

As he sighed and covered the remaining distance to the door, he supposed he could just sprint a few miles back to the school.

Fuuka experimentally turned the doorknob, testing to see if it was really unlocked.

It was.

He pulled the door open, dusted the snow off his shoes a little, and stepped inside. The door closed with a quiet thump behind him, and the martial artist looked around at the high, white ceiling, framed with octagonal windows. From where he stood, he could see all the levels of the house, stacked one on top of the other, and the staircases that twirled around them. Everything was very white, very pure and untainted like the snow.

Taking off his shoes carefully and placing them on the mat near the door so as to not leak any melting snow on the floor, Fuuka undid his scarf slightly, and put his gloves into the pockets of his coat. He padded over to the staircase in the back of the atrium-like-hall, and began trekking upward. By the time he reached the first level, he was already huffing and puffing, and when he reached the second level, he thought that the Fluorites and Kyle had to be either in incredible shape or just really mental.

Now Fuuka was faced with hall with rooms on both sides that seemed to stretch out endlessly deeper into the manor. He knew that Kyle's study was the last room on the left side, so to make this quicker, he started himself on a calm, jogging pace.

After only a few seconds, it was indeed an open room, lights turned out efficiently, and a metal table right up against the doorway. There were only two bags on the table and Fuuka wondered he should try to find the light switch in order to read the labels or see the pills.

The martial artist reached his hand in and began groping around for a light—

"_Harder."_

What—

_"There."_

He couldn't move.

There a sudden thump and rustle behind him from within Kyle's office, but it registered in recesses so far back in Fuuka's mind, that the martial artist wouldn't even remember it later on. All he could think of right now was the room across from where he was standing, the room across Kyle's office, the room whose door was only inches ajar, the room where sheets were moving and pale outlines writhing, the room where voices were sighing.

It would've been impossible for Fuuka to have gone through life as a socialite his age without ever walking in on someone having sex, whether the two (or three, or four) people doing so were socially allowed to do so or not. But this meant that he recognized the differences of gut feeling when you were encroaching on partners who were in a relationship (whether that relationship was just friends fucking, or real lovers) and when you happened across partners who weren't supposed to be doing what they were doing.

And the feeling swirling around in his stomach right now was not only that of the latter, but it was also intensified and telling him that even if he knew this was happening and that his logic was telling him he already knew one of the people involved, he _did not_ want to know the full story _nor_ did he want to know the other person's identity.

Still, Fuuka couldn't stop his feet from dragging across the floor, one hand reaching out instinctively to push the door open just a few more millimeters, ears perking up to catch the voices and more clearly name them in his mind.

He couldn't feel or hear himself breathe, and his body was so tense he wasn't even conscious of the fact that he was holding his breath. The door moved at his slightest touch and his eyes narrowed to take in what he was seeing, to try and make something of the moving tangle of limbs, all pale, and long and slender.

It only took a moment, a moment that passed in a blink of an eye, because when airy blond hair was tossed back at the same time that silverish blue eyes connected with Fuuka's in a millisecond of panic that Fuuka instantly knew, and something that he'd been wondering about for weeks on end clicked into place perfectly and horribly.

He didn't even wait, he didn't even give him a chance to let out his bated breath. Fuuka simply grabbed the first bag that his fingers touched from the metal table and sprinted down of the hall, down the stairs, smashing his shoes onto his feet, and slamming the door behind him. He didn't stop running and running and running until he was completely out of the forest, two miles away from the manor and the land around it.

Fuuka collapsed against a thick tree, leaning his head back, knees level with his chest. He scrunched his eyes closed and put a hand on his forehead, trying to calm his breathing, cold air rushing in and out of his lungs almost painfully. He stuffed the bag of medicine into his pockets and opened his eyes wide, watching his breath condense in front of him in the cold, winter air.

At least he didn't have to worry about saving Senryuu from Kurogane anymore.

* * *

Sakura scowled at her brother. Touya and Yukito were both back for winter vacation and since Yukito's parents were sunning away in Bora-Bora, and the dancer had interviews and pilot videos to shoot and choreographers to meet, he was staying with the Kinomoto family. Plus, she more than highly suspected that Touya was a horny caveman who couldn't control his bodily needs and would've followed Yukito to Bora-Bora anyhow.

And she'd been hoping that even though Touya was back, if Yukito was with him, then maybe the dancer could cushion the soccer player's blows toward Fuuka. Although, with the way things were going, it seemed that Yukito was too amused with simply being a spectator and watching Touya slowly turn Fuuka into a shrinking bundle of shame.

So much so that Fuuka had, seconds ago, meekly excused himself to the upstairs bathroom to take his medicine. Since there was no normal reason to have to eat one's pills in privacy other than the fact that one wanted to escape a tyrannical older brother, Sakura wasn't very happy with where this was heading. It wouldn't be half as bad if her father wasn't on a business trip with the Kunogi family somewhere in Luxembourg. She supposed that he'd hoped Yukito would play referee between Touya and Fuuka (although now, it'd be more like schoolyard-teacher-defending-a-poor-child-from-the-class-bully), but Sakura's father probably forgot that even though the dancer tried not to show it, Yukito obviously had to have a gianormous Touya bias.

"You're stupid," Sakura said, pouting.

Touya's eyes narrowed into slits. "You're stupider."

Yukito sighed. Sakura was certain that she'd heard suppressed laughter under the sigh. "If you two behave, maybe I'll give you an extra cup of pudding." Touya looked at the dancer, absolutely wounded at the sarcasm. And apparently, her brother thought that the mature way to show internal hurt was to wrap both of his arms around Yukito's waist, soldering their bodies tightly together on the couch that was originally supposed to seat for one, but Touya had forced himself in so that Yukito was half on the athlete's lap.

Because Touya was a stupid animal in heat who couldn't control his urges like a human for once in his stupid life.

In Sakura's opinion.

With his cheek pressed against Yukito's hair as he continued to hold the dancer to his stupid oversized, soccer player's body like a teddy bear, Touya said accusingly, "You just want to sneak out so you can do it with your boy toy against a tree or something."

Sakura wasn't quite aware of this happening, but she faintly heard a scream and she was pretty sure it came from her mouth. "Is it that unbelievable that I just want to go out on a date with him? You know, like to Butter or something? Where we'll eat food with forks and everything like humans instead of rutting into each other like pigs?"

"He's fucking sixteen!" Touya's voice rose up higher than it had been before puberty. "All he knows is rutting! I would know—I was sixteen, fucking remember?"

"Yeah I fucking remember," Sakura said back, her own voice rising high enough to break glass. "I remember because that's when you brought like three girls home in one night, and sometimes you wouldn't come home at all because you were too busy moping around trying to convince yourself that you weren't gay."

Touya looked outraged, and Sakura felt that by this point and time her brother should try counseling. "I'm _not gay_. I am _bi_."

"Not that I would know for sure," Sakura wrinkled her nose at Touya's utter stupidity, "But I highly suspect Yukito's a boy."

Yukito just looked amused. The dancer even petted Touya's hair a little bit. "She's got a point," he said gently, nudging Touya.

Outraged further, Touya sputtered a few incomprehensible noises that further proved Sakura's hypothesis about her brother not coming from a fully and correctly developed fetus, before standing up and waving both arms in the air like the illiterate Neanderthal that he was and shouting, "She's about to fucking do it with Fuuka Li—who is a boy. A human boy. With a dick and everything."

Yukito's amusement had somehow faded, and his expression was now slightly concerned. Most likely for Touya's mental welfare. "Yes. That's, um, kind of normal, Touya. Would you rather Sakura have sex with a girl?"

Sakura didn't know whether she should laugh or kick her brother where the sun never shined. The athlete appeared ready to pass out because of all the blood rushing to his face. "Look," she said finally. "It's not even like I'm going to be alone with him. I'm meeting Tomoyo there and Karen says she's going to be nearby because of some benefit. You can even call them afterward and ask if Fuuka and I were left alone for even one second, and then come yell at me, all right?" She stood up, and put her hands on her brother's shoulders, pushing him back down onto the sofa. "So just think about rainbows and unicorns and doing Yukito and I'll go see if he's done taking his meds."

"You're going to change, right?" Touya called after her. "You can't—you can't go out dressed like that. Dad said it couldn't be any more than three millimeters above the ankle."

Sakura turned around from the top of the staircase, incredulous. "Nuns can where shorter than that. It's not like I'm wearing booty shorts." She whipped around towards the halls, but not before her older brother, of course, had to further call out.

"There are dish towels longer than you're dress!"

She hoped Yukito bit hard.

* * *

"Any particular reason you're being a bastard today?" Yukito asked gently, as Touya's expression sulked deeper into Yukito's stomach. The athlete's head was supposed to be resting on the dancer's lap, but after fifteen minutes had passed with Sakura still suspiciously (or not so suspiciously) in the room with Fuuka, the soccer player had began to scowl and alleviate his anger by turning his head and trying to suffocate himself in Yukito's body.

Touya mumbled something into the dancer's shirt.

"It's not like she's twelve, you know. And you were probably blowed already by twelve," Yukito replied.

The next incoherent sequence of sounds came off highly indignant and somewhat offended. The dancer sighed. "Of course I believe that you didn't engage in sexual activity until the end of eighth grade. And I didn't say you were blowed because I was. No one was really interested in me until I started performing in showcases."

Touya's arms snaked around Yukito's waist and this time, the mumbling was longer and calmer. But Yukito really didn't want to hear any of this now when Sakura was still upset. "You can tell me how hot I was even before the showcases later. Right now, don't you think it'd be nice if you apologized for being a jackass brother?"

The athlete suddenly sat up, one hand still resting lightly around Yukito's hips. "I would, but they're probably too busy to hear any apology right now anyway," Touya snorted sardonically.

Yukito wet his lips exasperatedly. "I'm serious, Touya." He stood up, slipping himself out of the soccer player's hold. The dancer took both of Touya's hands in his own, swinging their arms lightly and giving the soccer player a gentle pull. "Go apologize. Say you're sorry."

The athlete looked disdainful. "Why? Because I'm trying to make sure she doesn't get fucking pregnant or contract some sort of STD that makes her grow green horns or something?" He took his hands out of Yukito's and folded his arms over his chest. "It's not like I actually have anything against the kid."

Yukito's eyebrows shot up above his glasses. "Oh, really? Because from the insults a few hours ago, and the insults every single time you've seen Fuuka, I would've thought you had a tiny something against him. But apparently, I inferred wrongly."

Touya threw his head back, tipping his face toward the ceiling. "Ugh. Don't give me that sarcastic bullshit. I just don't want my little sister to fucking get herself trashed while she's out partying with her druggie boyfriend. I don't get why she can't just date his twin or something. At least I can watch him better since I used to be on the same team."

"She won't get trashed because they aren't going to party and he's not a druggie, Touya," Yukito said quietly. "He isn't a druggie now, he never was, and he never will be. He was just a kid who tried to get high like we all once did, like some of us still do, and unlike us, he was just unlucky."

"He's an athlete," Touya ground out of his teeth. "A little pot here and there, sure, whatever, that crap's fine. But if you fucking want to be someone, get scouted, be on the national team, then you don't _ever _fucking do crystal. That shit fucking messes you up. Everyone knows that."

"He was in seventh grade." Yukito's voice was still quiet, calm. "Don't tell me you didn't mess up back then."

Touya sighed, rubbing his hands through his hands through his hair and looking up into serious liquid gold. "I can't. You're the one who watched me mess up—in seventh grade, in eighth grade. Hell, you watched me mess up since we were eight."

A ghost of a smile flitted over Yukito's lips. The dancer put one knee next to Touya's thigh on the couch, leaning the weight of his body forward. The athlete took Yukito's hands, and balanced him as the dancer came in closer, his mouth covering the soccer player's carefully. Touya's lips moved with Yukito's slowly, hands holding the dancer's face, fingers dipping up into cloudy blond hair. The athlete felt a tongue running along the back of his teeth, slender arms winding their way around his neck.

Touya's hands were steadily unbuttoning and unzipping the dancer's jeans when Yukito whispered into the athlete's mouth, "Say you're sorry."

The soccer player knew he should be irritated, and although a part of him was, another part of him was getting harder and harder because of the voice Yukito had just whispered with. "Yukito…"

"Sakura's a good girl," the dancer continued on, still using that voice that made Touya use up all his restraint just to keep from bucking forward. "And Fuuka's a good boy. Better than you were, at least."

Touya, despite the ache within the constraints of his own jeans, snorted. "You weren't so holy either, you know."

Yukito smiled as Touya's fingers tousled the dancer's hair further before the athlete removed his glasses with his teeth, lips grazing the bridge of Yukito's nose. "I know. But we're not getting any farther until you say sorry to Sakura."

The athlete groaned, and not the kind of groan he wanted to be groaning at the moment. He threw himself back away from Yukito, as the dancer readjusted himself teasingly on the soccer player's lap. "Seriously. So you seriously just pretended that you were going to let me get my rocks off so I could say sorry to my little sister about not letting her go out with her boy toy?"

"I wasn't pretending," Yukito explained calmly, combing his hair down with his fingers but leaving his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, and his jeans wide open and slipping off his hips—probably solely for Touya's discomfort. "But you should apologize if you're going to prove Sakura wrong."

"About what?" Touya snapped.

"Not being a rutting pig who can't control his bodily urges like a human of society."

"I'm not." The athlete was mortified.

Yukito looked skeptical. "We do it five times a week—at the _least_."

"I am _healthy_." This time, Touya was just indignant.

The dancer blinked his big eyes, made even bigger because his glasses were currently not on. "Physically, yes. Mentally, I'm not so sure."

Touya glared.

"It's not happening until you say sorry," Yukito summarized simply.

"Fine."

* * *

**A/N: **I finished this chapter while being terrorized by a flying bug of unknown species at a quarter till two in the morning, so I'm not really in the state of mind to say anything coherent about this chapter. I'm just on a complete happiness high because I just killed this terror with what I'd like to believe was human-intelligence-and-skill, but was probably actually desperation because I'm just that fucking terrified of bugs. Anyway, I was originally going to have the turning point be the end of this chapter, but I think it'd make more sense if it's a chapter of it's own. Erm, you'll see why. I'm just going to say now that for effect, I'm not going to have an author's note in the next chapter, but because it IS the turning point, it's the only chapter that I'd really love reviews for in a long time.

Er yeah.

I can't wait till winter already. 0_0 *sigh*


	23. Killed the Cat

Chapter Twenty-Two: Killed the Cat

Sometimes, you screamed.

Sometimes, you shouted.

Sometimes, you cursed.

Sometimes, you couldn't do anything.

* * *

All Sakura could do was fall to the ground, and take hold of his hand—still warm, somewhat stiff, but soft. All she could do was stare at the evidence—the foam flowing from his mouth, his wide, blank, dead eyes, and his pale, bloodless face.

* * *

All Touya could do was yell—panic and curse, shouting, and shaking Yukito, begging and asking him what they should do, what the hell just happened, grabbing hold of Sakura and shaking her, pleading for her to let go of him.

* * *

All Yukito could do was stand there, frozen, hand automatically reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, dialing 911, but part of him horrified because that part of him knew that there was no point in an ambulance coming here.

* * *

The pills rolled on the ground.


	24. 212 Degrees

**A/N: **So I thought that I'd start chapters out with the author's notes from now on because I feel like I'm intruding on your reading if I put it at the end. I don't really have much to say about this because things are just that depressing in this story-though I guess it's supposed to feel that way? 0_0 Other than that, I guess I just have to say that I'm back from my three weeks in Indonesia and whenever I'm away from writing for a while, I always get good story plot ideas (because I have nothing else to do other than to play with my plot bunnies) and I'd just like to say that after I finish this series, I'm going to have another TRC AU (I hope you're not tired of me yet? ~_~) alongside Watch This Space. It's not going to be a straight story right away-it'll kind of be written in chronicles, like, Impulse-style with bits and pieces of the timeline, and then comes the actual story (I'll put it all on my profile later so it'll make more sense.)

Anyway, for those of you who hadn't yet figured out (or been spoiled by me) about what happened to Fuuka, now you'll know.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: 212 Degrees

The snow had barely begun to fall by the time it'd reached half past eight, just after the sky had finished darkening. Seishiro parted the curtains with one hand and watched the small glare of headlights in the distance, twisting and turning their way towards the Akamizu music department dorms. He'd seen this same sight on repeat throughout the day, starting at four when Amaterasu came in with Tomoyo, Souma, Karen, Kotori, and Hokuto.

The high schools were apparently still on winter vacation, meaning Tomoyo was able to come up to the colleges without having to worry about getting back home in time before the snowstorm.

After the girls had come Watanuki, Doumeki, Mioru, and a few other soccer players (most likely because of Syaoran). Mioru had stayed long enough afterward to wait for Kurogane, probably knowing that the martial artist had actually known Fuuka, and probably making sure that Kurogane wouldn't attack the Maestro out of anything Seishiro would say.

As long as the higher-ups had been covered, Seishiro hadn't minded the little ants that'd dropped by here and there, pretending to be grieving about Fuuka and asking Seishiro what'd happened (as if the _Maestro_ had been at the hospital himself or something), and making sure when the funeral was and where and so on and so forth, telling him to send their condolences to Sakura and Syaoran (as if Seishiro had even _spoken_ to them since meeting with Touya and Yukito).

It didn't matter what Seishiro told the ants because they would never bother to investigate anything that didn't have any direct relation to themselves. It was the ones who actually, genuinely, sincerely, frighteningly cared that forced Seishiro to focus as he told each grouping that showed up details that were necessary and appropriate depending on the grouping of people. Especially ridiculously infamous goddesses like Karen and Kotori, he'd had to be treading on water with his toes the entire time.

But even they hadn't made his mind ache as much as what was about to come up.

The two cars that were currently trying to find empty spaces in the parking lot of the music department dorms were filled with Seishiro's own little brother, four of Seishiro's students, and one person that Seishiro really didn't want to see right now during a situation that not only made Seishiro furious beyond belief, but stressed to the point that he really did think murder wasn't such an impossible thing for him to commit.

He took a deep breath as he walked to the door when the knocking started, placed his hand on the handle and pulled it open. Quietly, one by one, Fuuma, Kamui, Subaru, Ashura, Yuui, and Fai filed in—the two pairs of twins sitting on the sofa and Fuuma and Ashura sitting on the floor.

Seishiro sat on the chair beside the TV, facing all six of them. Their faces were carefully balanced between somber and empty. "Who wants to start?" the conductor said, his voice unable to keep in the dangerous tone. "Yuui?"

"I didn't know he'd come in," the pianist said, not meeting Seishiro's eyes. Yuui's tone was as deadly as Seishiro's was dangerous. "How the fucking fuck was I supposed to know that Kinomoto's golden boy would come fucking strolling in for his meds when Kyle wasn't even in town?"

"So you decided to drug him to death," Seishiro said mockingly. "Because Yuuko and I taught you nothing about coercion and blackmail—or maybe just fucking talking it out and asking him not to tell anyone like a fucking sane person would do?"

"Those pills weren't meant to kill Fuuka—they weren't meant to kill," Ashura said, quietly and calmly and frightening. Unlike Yuui, the artist did look at Seishiro in the eyes—dark and threatening and as dangerously intimidating as the Maestro himself. "I told Yuui to slip them for any of Kyle's patients or clients—to spread the amount in the bag out so that they'd sue Kyle or get him in jail. I didn't mean for all of them in the bag to go to one person. They aren't fatal if you don't overdose. They'll put you in a coma at worst."

Seishiro leaned over, elbows on his knees and folded hands covering his mouth. "A fucking coma?" he repeated softly. "Are you fucking around with me, Ashura? What the hell were you going to do once you sabotaged Kyle? Sweep Fai and Yuui off their feet and whisked them away into Neverland? Does anyone around here fucking think any more?"

"Once Kyle is gone, there's a lot more that's possible than if he's still there looming over us, breathing down our backs," Ashura explained, his face giving away that he was straining not to hit Seishiro. "And now they've taken him away for questioning and Fai and Yuui are almost legal—they're in college, they can do whatever shit they want—they can be _free_."

The conductor's eyes narrowed. "Is that all you fucking think about?" He looked at Fai who was sitting as still and inhumanly beautiful and expressionless as a porcelain doll. "What the fuck are we supposed to do about the kid that fucked you? Now I'm responsible for hiding his ass, too. Offing the Fuuka kid means there's no witness of Kyle whoring Fai out—but even if he was alive, there still would be no point because Kyle wasn't even fucking home and it just looked like Fai was cheating on Ashura and getting it on with some nobody."

Seishiro rubbed his eyes, and continued. "Fai, why the hell would you fucking take in one of Kyle's fucking clients when Kyle isn't home? Fuuka's dead so that kid you did it with isn't really in any trouble at all, and he'll probably fine, but now I'll have to keep watch on him and make sure he doesn't try to kill himself or do anything suspicious. I'll probably have to watch him for the rest of his social life, if he even has one, and do you know how much fucking work it takes to watch all of you assholes?"

Fai continued to stare back at Seishiro lifelessly and said nothing.

Fuuma had his eyes lowered, and Kamui and Subaru were staring into their laps. Ashura and Yuui's expressions reflected Seishiro's in the need to destroy and decimate someone, anyone, anything.

"Seishiro," Fuuma said suddenly, eyes looking up to meet his brother's. "He's dead and there's nothing anyone can do about it. You've told everyone all there is to tell, and we can't say anything about what really happened. We can't and we won't. No one's going to know, there's no one who knows something they shouldn't except for that kid and he can't talk because he was a part of it. Kyle's done for and Ashura can get Fai and Yuui out once they graduate. Yuuko will smooth things over. The funeral is in a few days and after that, no one's going to want to talk about it. It's done, and we should go home." The athlete said all of this in a quiet, even, steady tone, never stopping the flow of words—never pausing.

Seishiro met his younger brother's eyes for a long moment.

"Go home, then," the conductor finally said, his expression no longer able to hold anything besides emptiness. They were all empty—they'd never handled something like this, and it left all of them lost. Lost and confused and feelings of uncertainty, unsure of yourself, this was something none of them had ever had to go through. They'd always been confident—confident of themselves, of how others thought of them, their surroundings, their intelligence and appearance and wealth.

How were they to act now that all of it was crashing down around them? How were they supposed to act, to _live on_ knowing that all those things they'd been taught mattered—appearance and status and wealth and reputation—how were they to live on now that they knew those things couldn't protect you from everything?

Ashura, Fai, and Yuui stood up, following Fuuma and Kamui out the door. The last one out, Ashura, closed it behind him with a small click.

Subaru hadn't left.

The trumpeter was still sitting on the sofa, watching Seishiro quietly, expression concerned and soft. Seishiro locked the door after the others' exit and turned, looking back at Subaru. "You're not going to leave?"

"Will you be okay?" Subaru asked quietly, eyes worried.

Seishiro stepped slowly toward Subaru, one foot in front of the other, silently padding across the living room. "It shouldn't matter to you. You have Mioru and Doumeki all nice and pocketed in your pants. I'll be fine." Usually, before they did it whenever Subaru came over, they'd never exchange words. But the frustration, the irritation, the anger, the stress had built up too high in Seishiro and the intent to destroy, the need to make something as fucked up and shitty as he was feeling was rising fast.

Subaru's eyes widened. His gaze lowered away from Seishiro. "I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be," Seishiro said, smiling cheerfully, his tone mocking and acidic. "You worked hard to get them on your record—those clothes were a nice touch. Becoming Sacred was nothing short of what you deserved. So really, don't worry about me—I'll be fine."

The air was still, and the silence stretched.

Subaru's expression had frozen and Seishiro couldn't even hear the trumpeter breathe. But then the trumpeter stood up, and it was the conductor's turn to freeze in his place. Subaru crossed the space between them hesitantly, biting his lip. Seishiro looked down into the trumpeter's eyes as he came and stood inches away from the Maestro. "I wanted to be a Sacred," Subaru said softly, face tipped up and gazing straight into Seishiro's eyes, "because…I thought then I would be worth your time."

Seishiro didn't know if it was all the frustration and anger that'd built up today, or if it'd just been everything he'd built up this entire year because of Subaru, everything that he'd realized about actually being in love with Subaru and not wanting to be because he was the Maestro and he couldn't be in love with anybody and love only ever hurt and he didn't want to end up like everyone around him—like Yuui who had to watch the person he loved love his mirror image rather than him, like Kamui who was too afraid to be with Fuuma because Fuuma was Seishiro's brother, like Watanuki who hadn't wanted to love someone just because he wasn't a woman, like Fai who couldn't love at all, like Mioru and Kurogane who were both too caught up trying to love each other that they couldn't see how much better off they were without the other.

Like Sakura Kinomoto who was hurting because the person she loved, the person who had loved her, would never open his eyes again.

But whatever it was, it permeated the Maestro's entire body—he couldn't even think or see clearly. It was as if he'd drunk his way into complete and utter intoxication and all there was left to keep his body moving were his barest instincts and his barest instincts were roaring inside of him—roaring and thrashing and crying—

He knocked Subaru to the ground.


	25. Reciprocal

**A/N: **I've sort of decided to try and focus on Compelled a bit more than Impulse and Unveiled because Compelled should honestly have been finished before I'd even started Unveiled. And because there are a lot of things that happen in Compelled that without them being written, there's no way for me to write the next chapters with Seishiro and Subaru in Impulse. It would be like writing the ending before I figured what exactly happened in the middle.

On the other hand, StarkBlack has another "Memories" one shot out, and has actually said that the sequel is approaching (along with Law/Kidd) and although most of you make no sense of this whatsoever, I just thought I'd report that because this is and "Memories" is a mighty piece of fanfic.

I also hope that I made it clear enough (but also vague enough) what Seishiro exactly did to Subaru.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: Reciprocal

Smoke and the darkness. It seemed that whenever there was something wrong in Seishiro's life, he always ended up smoking weed in the dark. The weed to make whatever was wrong seem as though it wasn't as fucked up as it really was and the darkness so Seishiro wouldn't have to see anything—to see was to believe, and if he couldn't see the furniture around him, the ceiling, anything that rooted him to reality, it somehow made it better.

In this fucked up fucking currently, the weed was masking the shock, completely burying it and preventing Seishiro from literally destroying something or killing himself from the realization of what he'd just done. The darkness was because he didn't want to see the pale, broken, bruised, scratched, scarred, limp naked body lying on his floor, curled up and somewhat bleeding. He didn't want to see the small drops of blood, fused with splatters of yellowish white. He didn't want to see Subaru's empty, half-open eyes, dead and emotionless.

All he needed now were some earplugs or stronger weed so he wouldn't have to hear the soft uneven, labored breaths coming from the pale and prone body lying on the floor.

But even the darkness and smoke couldn't mask everything—he could still hear as Subaru eventually, somehow miraculously, struggled slowly to his feet. He could still make out the shape of the trumpeter limping step by step, arms wrapped around himself as though trying to keep the pieces together, towards the bathroom.

As soon as he heard the lock click into place, he stood up and turned on the lights, just enough so he could see the kitchen. Seishiro crossed over to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of whiskey, preparing to drink both of them clean before tonight ended. He also opened the drawers for more weed.

* * *

Subaru understood.

The trumpeter knew he couldn't stand long enough to take a shower—it'd taken all the strength he had left to walk to the bathroom without crying out or stumbling and collapsing back to the ground. He slowly, so slowly, and carefully sat himself on the cold stone of the bathtub and turned on the water, laying his head back against the wall, arms still hugging himself tightly.

His cheeks were wet, but only because Seishiro had felt so angry. If it was the conductor, Subaru had always been able to feel what he was feeling whenever they had sex. And lately, all Subaru had felt from the way the conductor had pounded, more or less throwing himself into Subaru, was frustration and irritation—Seishiro, especially tonight, was beside himself. The trumpeter had never seen him angrier.

It was a deathly, cold, silent kind of furious—dangerous because it was Seishiro, and volatile because of how delicate everything had been lately.

But what Seishiro had done to him tonight—Subaru understood. He didn't mind. He wasn't angry, wasn't sad, wasn't anything. He might not know exactly how it felt to be the Maestro—to have to take care of things of this great magnitude, to have to tell all those people that one of their own, someone special and gifted and _perfect_ had died.

Because perfection was supposed to last forever.

He might not know, but he understood. He understood that Seishiro probably felt suffocated, tired, fed up with how Ashura and Yuui and Fai were acting, fed up with how they were acting as though no one existed or mattered except for each other and not caring that there were others that cared and worried for them as well even if those others might not be aware of their full situation.

Subaru had always known that there was something Yuui and Fai weren't telling him—he'd always known that everyone else seemed to know except for Subaru, and he understood that they didn't want to tell him. It'd bothered him at first, but as he'd accepted that Seishiro wanted special and intriguing like Yuui and Fai and Kamui, he'd also accepted that he just wasn't to know some secrets. That it was their secret and they shouldn't have to tell him.

He understood that Seishiro had to vent everything out some way and if he wanted to vent it on Subaru like this, then Subaru would let him. Subaru didn't mind—if it helped Seishiro, Subaru was even glad. After all, doing this was less than the least Subaru could do after Mioru and Doumeki. He wasn't quite sure why Seishiro was so upset about that if the conductor never really cared who Subaru did on the side, but he didn't want Seishiro to be upset.

Subaru didn't know any way other than doing whatever Seishiro wanted in order to let the conductor know that the trumpeter didn't _want_ Mioru or Doumeki—that he'd rather have Seishiro hurt him a thousand times over for one day, than be happy with Mioru or Doumeki forever.

The trumpeter shut his eyes, letting the hot liquid stain his cheeks again, dripping down into the warm water that was slowly filling the tub. He yawned, and let his eyes droop gradually. It had to be at least past midnight, and he had to find some way to get home before Kamui started throwing another fit and bothered Seishiro again.

* * *

Seishiro was halfway through the second bottle of whiskey when he went to get more weed from the kitchen and stepped in a puddle of water on the way. His first thought was that the weed and alcohol and formed together into some sort of hallucinogen or the stress was literally warping his senses and his perspective on his surroundings.

His second thought, which wasn't much more coherent than the first due to all the smoking and drinking, was that the puddle of water was drifting in one long stream from beneath the bathroom door and Subaru was behind that bathroom door. An afterthought followed that and that was wondering why he could think so thoroughly after he'd drunk his way through a bottle and half of whiskey and probably smoked half a pound of weed in less than two hours.

The conductor took off his now-soaked socks and kicked them aside. He stepped slowly through the growing pond in his living room, trying to keep steady despite the fact that he suspected he was hallucinating about all of this water in the first place because stress, guilt, shock, partial-trauma, alcohol, and weed did that to a person.

Seishiro stretched his arm as high as it would go and skimmed the tiny ledge of the top of the doorframe for the key to the locked door. He flicked the metal stick down and caught it, placing it into the hole and turning. He replaced it back onto the ledge and wrapped his hand around the doorknob, turned, and then pulled it open.

When the wave of hot water dashed at his knees and down, he was certain that this wasn't a hallucination and that was really it. That was the last coherent, sensible, reasonable thought he had and everything that came afterward was just a jumble of sights and smells and touches and noises.

The entire bathroom was flooded with water that had overflowed from the bathtub left running. Seishiro slipped and slid over the tiles and gripped onto the sink, switching off the bathtub faucet. It was clear water outside the bathroom, but as it got closer to the bathtub, the water was tinged with pink, and as Seishiro's eyes traveled to the water in the bathtub, his fuddled mind realized that the water was a bright, scarlet red.

And Subaru was lying in it, eyes closed and body unmoving.

There was a brief second where simply the sight of it and what it could be first taken as made Seishiro's heart stop, literally, stop, perhaps even skip a beat, but then he took in Subaru's chest, heaving up and down just barely. The conductor fell onto his knees, uncaring about the water, and splashed toward the bathtub, immediately wrapping his arms around Subaru and bringing the trumpeter against the edge of the tub, close to Seishiro's body.

Holding Subaru unconscious, a tiny voice spoke up impishly and horrifically in the Maestro's mind—

_What if he'd slipped into the water completely?_

By now…there was no way even if Seishiro had found him an hour ago…if he'd fallen completely into the water, if Subaru hadn't woken up and Seishiro hadn't found him—if, just if, all it took was that _if_, and Subaru hadn't been supported by his arms resting on the ledge…

The entirety of Seishiro's body shook, and it felt as though something ugly and black wanted to climb its way up Seishiro's throat.

The state of the Maestro's mind right now was unbelievable—there was terror and there was shock and there was little of anything else other than the instinct to keep breathing.

_What the fuck was he supposed to do? _

He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be alone with Subaru any more. He needed someone else. But when his mind raced through all the possible names, there was only one possibility that came up, and it wasn't a possibility that Seishiro welcomed—it was someone that Seishiro had to choose because there was no one else.

With his dry hand, the conductor rummaged in his pockets for his phone and texted as quickly as he could with one hand, shaking. He tucked his cell back into his pocket and then turned back to the body in his arms. Stretching his arm as deep and far as he could, he reached into the water and felt around for the plug, yanking it firmly when his fingers wrapped around the metal.

He held Subaru tighter, lifting him into a straighter sitting position as the water drained. He had to wake the trumpeter. Seishiro could only imagine the repercussions being unconscious from whatever had made Subaru unconscious would cause. Even if Subaru was just sleeping, he'd probably catch cold if Seishiro didn't wake him up.

The conductor lightly shook the trumpeter, fingers carefully squeezing Subaru's shoulders. "Subaru," he said softly—saying his name made the Maestro's chest clench, made it feel as though his lungs were collapsing. "Subaru, can you hear me? Wake up."

Thankfully, fortunately, luckily, thank _God_, Subaru's eyes fluttered.

The trumpeter's eyes remained half-lidded, sleepy and disoriented. His gaze slowly rose to Seishiro's face, surprise registering in his tired face. "Seishiro…?" Subaru whispered, confused. He attempted to sit up straighter, to remove himself out of Seishiro's arms, but the Maestro was too far gone to feel or do anything except for what his instincts were driving him to—his arms had locked Subaru in because he wasn't fucking letting go.

Seishiro's throat was tight, veins popping. "I'm taking you to the hospital, Subaru. I'm going to wash you down and then Fuuma is driving us to see Satsuki."

Subaru looked around, eyes slowly becoming more alert. "Wait…Seishiro…why…why is there water all-? And why are you wet? Did you drain the tub—wait—"

"Please don't talk, Subaru," Seishiro said quietly, his heart in flames and his mind spiraling into blackness. "Fuuma's driving us to the hospital and Satsuki's going to look at you, okay?"

Subaru was starting to worry. Seishiro was holding him so close to the Maestro's own body that the trumpeter literally had to keep his hands on the conductor's chest to keep himself from being completely suffocated against Seishiro's shoulder. And Seishiro was drenched wet from his shoulders down, sitting in the ocean of water that flooded the entire bathroom floor as though it was perfectly warm and dry.

"Does it hurt there?" Seishiro asked so softly that Subaru had to strain to hear, even as close as they were. "I have to wash off the blood if there's any, but I don't know how I'll stop it. There was blood in the water and I wasn't sure if that was because it'd traveled or because you kept bleeding and—"

"Seishiro," Subaru interrupted hesitantly. "I'm fine—I'm okay. It's okay." And it was mostly true. Although his body was cold and aching, the bruises starting to gain their signature purplish color, the fresh cuts stinging in the icy air, and the tearing sensation intensely burning between his legs, Subaru was fine. He was fine, and even if he wasn't, Seishiro couldn't know that. But for some reason, when he had said those words, reassuring the conductor that he wasn't hurt, hot, liquid tears began to pool in his eyes.

And Seishiro could see it. Subaru didn't have the faintest clue about what Seishiro might be feeling to be acting this strangely, or perhaps it really was the stress getting to the conductor's head, but whatever it was, Seishiro's eyes seemed to glaze over at the sight of tears streaking down the trumpeter's cheeks.

Wordlessly, Seishiro let go of Subaru, taking the trumpeter's arms and putting them around the conductor's neck. Seishiro leaned down and slipped one arm under Subaru's knees and the other around Subaru's waist and lifted him out of the bathtub. "Seishiro…?" Subaru couldn't clearly see the Maestro's expression through the relentless stream of tears that the trumpeter couldn't explain.

Seishiro wasn't speaking. He continued in methodic silence, standing up, grabbing a towel and slopping through the flooded bathroom, through the doorway and steadily toward the Maestro's bedroom. He flicked on a light, barely illuminating the room, and set Subaru gently—so softly—onto the bed, wet and naked and bleeding and bruised.

The Maestro didn't trust himself to talk—if he opened his mouth, he knew he'd vomit. He was certain.

He shook out the towel, and began to dry Subaru—rubbing the cloth over the slender arms and trying to take his mind off of the idea of hanging himself when he saw the purple bruises blooming against the pale skin; toweling the trumpeter's thin thighs and legs, careful with the pressure, again because of the cuts and bruises lining up and down Subaru's skin. Seishiro had never realized that whenever he'd slammed Subaru against something, whether it was the kitchen counter that still held silverware or the table covered with sharp-edged paper, it would form all of these wounds.

He definitely hadn't thought it when he'd slammed and pushed Subaru against the wall, the trumpeter's stomach and chest colliding with the pointed edge of a metal picture frame, all those months ago, the first day all of this had started. He hadn't thought about it because if he had, he would never have done it, not if he'd known that the scar it would leave was what he saw before his eyes right now—stretching from Subaru's left shoulder all the way across his body to the right side of his waist.

An old scar compared to the little ones sprinkled fresh and new, but not so old when compared to Fai's scars.

"Lie down on your stomach," Seishiro said quietly.

Subaru stretched out on the bed, head pillowed gingerly in his bruised arms. The Maestro placed both hands on each of the trumpeter's thighs, trying to convey that he wasn't going to hurt Subaru—he was going to check. "I don't…" Subaru whispered. "I don't think you should see."

Seishiro ignored those words. He gently, carefully, parted Subaru's thighs, pushing them apart softly, and looked.

The bile rose up his throat.

He could literally taste the bitterness on his tongue as he forced it back down. If he actually threw up, Subaru would take it the wrong way—the trumpeter in all of his ridiculous selfless glory would think that Seishiro was disgusted by the blood, by how beaten and broken Subaru was, by what was between Subaru's thighs. Subaru would never believe the Maestro at this point if Seishiro were to tell him that he wanted to vomit because of the realization, the striking realization that Seishiro had done this—Seishiro had done this with his own hands, with his own body. He had turned sex into something ugly and painful and disgusting and frightening—

Just like Kyle had.

Satsuki was going to murder him.

"Seishiro?" Subaru asked, and Seishiro fell back into place, realizing that he must've been still and silent for a moment too long. He cupped the trumpeter's cheek briefly, and Subaru's eyes followed him confusedly. Seishiro stood up and crossed over to his closet, taking out a towel for himself and dry clothes for both of them.

He had to work fast before Fuuma arrived.

He couldn't let his younger brother see the extent of the damage—not because he was afraid his brother would judge him, because everyone, including Fuuma, already knew that Seishiro was a bastard (everyone but Subaru). He didn't want Fuuma to see because Fuuma was his brother, and even though he was a bastard, Seishiro didn't want to ruin what Fuuma had with Kamui. He didn't want to make his brother's life fucked up just because his was.

The conductor turned back to Subaru, tossing onto the bed a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants that were bound to be two sizes too large for the trumpeter because they were Seishiro's clothes. Seishiro himself changed into jeans and a sweatshirt—very rare attire for a socialite, but thoughts of clothing not even crossing the farthest recesses of his mind. He was more interested in a way to stop the way his heart was beating against his chest—loud and throbbing and painful, punching and burning him with every beat.

"No underwear for now, all right?" Seishiro said quietly, using the towel Subaru had been lying on to dry the trumpeter up one more time, before taking the clothes and shaking them out. Subaru still looked confused, unsure of what to do until the conductor pulled the trumpeter's arms into the air and pulled the shirt over his head. Then Seishiro pushed Subaru back down and gently lifted the pale legs into the air, slipping his feet through the sweatpants and holding up the small of Subaru's back as the conductor pulled the waistband to the trumpeter's small, bruised hips.

The sleeves fell past Subaru's hands and the tired green eyes were searching Seishiro's face. "I don't need the hospital," the trumpeter said softly, fingers gripping the hems of the sleeves. "You can stop."

He didn't know what made him do it, but for the first time, for the first time in nearly a year, but what felt like the first time in many years, Seishiro found himself leaning in with one knee on the bed, hands holding Subaru's face, and kissed him. Their mouths didn't open, their tongues didn't invade—it was simply lips to lips, soft and gentle, careful and almost hesitant like the violent opposite of everything he'd done to Subaru this year.

At the distance their faces were at from each other, Seishiro could see drop by drop the tears starting to glide down the bridge of Subaru's nose. The trumpeter met Seishiro's gaze, and the green eyes were filled with a thousand kinds of heartbreaking confusion, torn between how Seishiro was holding him now and how Seishiro had hurt him just hours before.

Seishiro would never again be able to be the one that made those green eyes bright with soft laughter or clouded with gentle lust. He'd never again be able to have them looking up at him with trust and certainty. He'd never be able to have those eyes let him cover that pale body with feather light touches because this entire year he'd trained it to only know bruise-deep fingers.

"Why—" Subaru whispered, eyes hurriedly running all over Seishiro's face.

The Maestro took the small cold hands into his own and said quietly, forcing a Fluorite smile onto his face, "Fuuma's brought a driver to bring us to the hospital—they'll probably be downstairs right now, so I'll have to carry you, all right?"

"I can—"

"No you can't," Seishiro cut off, his voice coming out sharper and shakier than he had intended. "If you even _try_ to walk, I will hit something, Subaru." He felt the tension through the trumpeter's hands and he didn't dare to look into those eyes. "Please—I told you not to talk, remember?"

The trumpeter broke the gaze, eyes towards the ground and lips mouthing, "Sorry", before taking his hands out of Seishiro's.

Many had said that the Maestro couldn't possibly have a heart, and Seishiro had always agreed because he honestly didn't want a heart—there was nothing a heart was good for and it wasn't like it would make him money—but if he didn't have a heart, than he wondered what was tightening and splintering off into pieces in his chest right now.

However the unspeakable piercing that was engulfing his chest wasn't something that Seishiro didn't know how to stop—he knew how, it was just that the way to put the agony at bay wasn't something he could do with himself, and he'd thought that by now he should stop taking advantage of Subaru just to ease the feeling of his chest being stuffed with needles.

But now the pain was so unbearable that Seishiro found himself grabbing Subaru's hands back into his own, holding on tightly despite the surprise that jolted through the trumpeter's eyes. The pain in his chest was clouding his judgment, and that, the conductor felt, was the only way he would ever want to explain the words that flew out of his mouth next. "If I said that I was sorry, what would you think?" he asked in a quiet voice.

The tears couldn't be held back any longer.

Subaru's shoulders started to shake violently and he bit his lip in an attempt to silence the sobbing, but that just made his entire body tremble from the force of his uneven, ragged breathing. Seishiro's expression was utterly dumbfounded, but Subaru, for once, knew the reason why his tears refused to be kept back anymore.

Seishiro was acting like he loved Subaru—Seishiro was kind.

Seishiro was touching him gently.

Seishiro had _kissed_ him.

Seishiro wanted to apologize?

For what?

It was too much.

Subaru didn't know what he was supposed to think—he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to act, and he didn't have a clue about what was going on. All he knew was that Seishiro was holding him softly, caring for him, talking to him in a low and quiet voice, and Subaru didn't ever want it to stop. If he could freeze time, he'd freeze it right now. If Subaru had to endure beatings until he bled and broke to have Seishiro gentle and kind like this, then Subaru would—he'd endure twice, three times, four times as much. It didn't matter.

He just wanted Seishiro to love him back.

He'd never wanted anything more.


	26. Clearance

**A/N: **So, like I'd said on my profile update, I've been settling into the new school year, figuring which lockers I'm going to borrow from whom and what books go in there, finding routes to my classes that allow me time to empty my bladder, finding the pattern that my new teachers have and all that good high school stuff (and who can forget celebrating the fact that I'm not a freshman any more?). But I've finally got around to finishing the rest of the new school year stuff and I've put this up kind of in honor of the-almost-end of the first full week of school for me, and because I really want to finish Compelled before I let you guys see any of the rest of Seishiro and Subaru's story in Impulse because you have to see all of this to understand why Seishiro's really suffering from some trauma during Subaru's attack in Impulse because Kyle doing that to Subaru really isn't any different from what Seishiro did last chapter.

And without further unnecessary author's-noting, I hope you enjoy this next spiel of angst.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five: Clearance

Fuuma was sitting in the back of the car with the screen put up between him, Seishiro, Subaru and the driver. Seishiro had slid in, settled Subaru sideways on his lap so that the trumpeter's legs were draped over one side of the conductor's knee, and then he had told the driver to be off to the town's hospital. As soon as they were out of Akamizu's vicinity, Seishiro threw his cell phone at the athlete.

"Who do you want me to call?"

"Satsuki," Seishiro said quietly, eyes still wide and one palm over Subaru's ear, soldering the side of the senior's head to his chest, both of the trumpeter's ears efficiently covered this way. Fuuma had snuck a look at Subaru's face when they'd gotten into the car, and it'd looked like he'd been well on his way to the Land of Nod anyhow—it wasn't like there was much to gain from eavesdropping, not that Seishiro's desire to block Subaru's ears wasn't ridiculous in the first place.

Fuuma began to look through the contacts list and once he found Satsuki's number and prepared to call, he asked, "What am I supposed to tell her?"

Seishiro was quiet for a moment. Then, "Tell her that I need her."

Fuuma thought for a split, initial second that his brother had finally lost it. He thought that maybe all of this stress as being the Maestro finally had caused Seishiro Sakurazuka to crack. But that was only a reacting thought, and then Fuuma came to the usual conclusion that to have become the Maestro in the first place, Seishiro must've already been born this crazy. "I hope you're convinced that this is going to make her care," the athlete said skeptically. "It takes a lot more than 'I need you' to make Satsuki give a rat's ass about anything she's not personally interested in—even if it's you."

His brother's expression didn't change. "Just call her and say it."

Fuuma frowned. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will."

The athlete sighed and pressed on the name, shifting the phone to his ear and listened to the quiet ringing. It went on for a few seconds, and then there was a click, and a low, blank female voice said, "Yes?"

"This isn't Seishiro," Fuuma said first.

"I wasn't expecting it to be," Satsuki replied, somewhat dryly. "That boy never makes or takes his own calls. So what the hell did he fuck up this time? I already did him the favor of his life by taking that druggie kid to the ER and doing all the paperwork personally—and _then_ covering it up. My higher-ups were screaming at me."

"He needs you," Fuuma said, feeling completely stupid, because it sounded a lot more desperate and not-humiliating when his brother had said it.

There was a brief pause. Satsuki's tone was a bit confused and a bit more irritated when she spoke next. "What do you mean he needs me? When he calls, he always needs me or else he wouldn't call, obviously. It freaks the shit out of me when he says stuff like that, you know."

Fuuma gave a quick glance to the look of wanting to simply die on his brother's face right now and then responded with, "I think it's supposed to."

"What do you mean it's supposed—"

"Seriously Satsuki, if you value your life right now, I'd just get ready for a black Mercedes to pull in to your building, without parking, and needing an empty hospital room in a relatively unoccupied wing with no police fuckers or any of your higher-ups skipping around."

Her tone suddenly switched gears and even though there was still a hint of total irritation and bewilderment, it was mostly professional as it said, "Fine," and then hung up.

Fuuma turned to Seishiro, handing the phone back to him. The conductor replaced it quietly into his pocket and continued to stroke Subaru's hair in a silent, emotionless way that honestly scared Fuuma halfway to fucking death. He didn't know if this was wise, if he should even take this chance, if maybe this was just stupidly insensitive, but the more he thought about it, the sooner he blurted it out on instinct. "Seishiro—did you—?" The athlete stared at Subaru. "Did you—?"

There was this odd little smile that snuck its way around Seishiro's mouth and the conductor said quietly, "Your big brother's an idiot, Fuuma."

"Why?" Fuuma asked simply.

"Because I was breaking," Seishiro's eyelids lowered slightly. "And he was there and if I didn't break something, I was going to die."

Fuuma lowered his head once, slowly, in a nod. "I won't tell Kamui."

"Tell him," Seishiro said lightly. "I was going to call him anyway—actually, it'd be better if I was the one to tell him, Fai, and Yuui. I'll call them to the hospital after we get there." His eyes turned away from the athlete and onto Subaru. Fuuma followed his brother's gaze—the trumpeter was stirring faintly.

Subaru's thin shoulders, his thin frame, obscured almost entirely by the ill-fitting clothes, rotated slightly, his face becoming visible against the crook of Seishiro's shoulder. His eyes were wide awake and open, and his eyebrows shot up at the sight of Fuuma. The athlete, despite himself, found a small smile slipping onto his face to give to the trumpeter.

Seishiro cupped Subaru's cheek. "Go back to sleep," he murmured.

Most of the people who knew Seishiro, whether personally or not, wouldn't bother to understand anything about him past his name and what he majored in. And even then, the others in the Circus all had their own individual borders when it came to the Maestro that they didn't want pass—Fuuma knew that with his brother, sometimes it was easier to just leave the situation where it was rather than delving for every bit of reason, since in situations that concerned the conductor, reason was normally very hard to come by.

But being his brother, most times, Fuuma wasn't able to have the comfort and courtesy of those borders because whether he liked it or not, he somehow knew how Seishiro's mind worked. Most times, he didn't even know how he knew how a mind like that operated and came to the ridiculous conclusions that it did. For the majority of the time, the athlete chalked it up to the fact that they did share blood, even if he knew that given the choice, Seishiro would probably take that away from Fuuma, too.

At this moment, however, having his brother sitting right beside him, holding something warm and soft and precious in his arms, looking down with eyes that Fuuma had never seen Seishiro use, hearing the conductor speak with a voice that gentle, the athlete thought that maybe—maybe this was the an instance where he knew fully how he understood his brother's mind so well.

* * *

Subaru didn't understand. He didn't understand why any of this was happening. He didn't understand why he was cushioned in Seishiro's lap, wrapped in Seishiro's arms, being driven to the _hospital_. He didn't understand why, for the first time, Fuuma looked so serious. He didn't understand why Seishiro kept telling him to fall asleep. He didn't understand why his body was cold and numb on the outside, and fiery, desperately hot at the core.

The trumpeter twisted his head around as far as he could without attracting attention with too much movement. Whenever he shifted in the conductor's arms in too noticeable a way, Seishiro would either tighten his hold or start whispering meaningless soothing things into Subaru's hair the way a mother would when she wanted to put her baby back to sleep.

And this was all too dizzying for Subaru to handle.

He looked up at Seishiro's face, trying to discern the emotions painted on—maybe that would help him understand what the fuck was going on right now, because Subaru would really love to be clued in. He would really love, really, to understand even a fraction of what seemed to be happening around him right now. He would love to understand perhaps even a hint of the thought process running through the Maestro's head because for all Subaru knew, the driver could be actually bringing them to the ocean so Seishiro could put a chain on Subaru's ankle and toss him in.

But before anything else happened, Subaru thought that perhaps he should actually apologize—Seishiro had taken out his anger and the fury had seemed to dissipate, but Subaru should still say sorry, or at least let the conductor know that he hadn't done it to intentionally piss him off or anything.

The trumpeter placed his fingertips hesitantly on Seishiro's shoulder. The Maestro's eyes slid down, still filled with that odd tension. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

Subaru shook his head, slightly alarmed. "Nothing." Why was his voice so hoarse? "Um—I just—I wanted to say sorry."

Something akin to irritation seemed to flash over Seishiro's face. "Why?"

"About—" Subaru looked away. "About—um—Mioru and Doumeki. You seemed really mad, so, I'm sorry." He slid his gaze tentatively, intending to sneak a peek at Seishiro's expression, only to have his lips caught by the Maestro's. His eyes closed and one hand instinctively brushed against the conductor's cheek, before he remembered that Fuuma was inches away from them, and he tried to pull away.

Seishiro's arm remained soldered around Subaru and the trumpeter didn't get very far—his face stayed moments away from Seishiro's. The conductor gave a humorless smile. "You're really killing me, Subaru." He seemed to exchange a mildly incredulous glance with his brother before looking back down at the trumpeter and saying, "You don't have to apologize to a bastard."

Subaru's mouth opened. He needed to say something, but he didn't know what.

The conductor smiled softly, fingers stroking through Subaru's hair again. "It's getting kind of long again, huh?"

The trumpeter was getting worried—his voice _truly_ wasn't coming out, no matter how loud his mind was yelling and giving it orders to say something.

But Seishiro didn't seem to see Subaru clearly—the Maestro was staring intensely, sadly, at the trumpeter's hair for reasons that Subaru honestly couldn't even begin to fathom.

Did Seishiro love him?

The thought wasn't intentional—Subaru didn't think it on purpose and he didn't want to believe that it was on purpose, but he didn't want to believe it was by accident either. It just flew up in his mind as Seishiro continued to hold him, continued to look at his hair, his eyes, all of him, as though Subaru was some kind of treasure—the way Seishiro hadn't looked at Subaru for years because recently, Seishiro hadn't looked at Subaru at all.

Seishiro hadn't kissed him in years either—at least not like he'd kissed Subaru in the past few hours. Seishiro had definitely bit and thrashed his tongue through Subaru, quick and sloppy, but it'd been longer than Subaru could remember that the conductor had simply touched his lips softly and precisely to the trumpeter's. "Maybe I should get it cut soon, then," Subaru replied finally, not quite understanding what the relevance this had to anything.

But the conductor simply continued to baffle as he pressed his lips against the crown of the trumpeter's head and said, "Maybe." There was a hint of soft amusement in his voice, but like the way he was holding Subaru, there was mostly desperation and sadness that Subaru couldn't understand. He couldn't understand why Seishiro was acting the way he was—the only explanation he could possibly think of wasn't even an explanation. Seishiro's current tenseness simply struck Subaru with the thought that the Maestro really was too kind regardless of what everyone else always told Subaru.

There was no other reason for Seishiro to seem so bothered by this other than the fact that the conductor was acting out of kindness because he felt sorry for Subaru and for what he'd done to Subaru even though that was the trumpeter's own fault.

And it was killing him.

It was killing Subaru how close Seishiro was holding him. It was killing Subaru how warm Seishiro was. It was killing Subaru how gently Seishiro stroked his hair and his face. It was killing Subaru how Seishiro looked at him as if he loved him. It was killing him because he didn't want to keep pretending to resist—he didn't want to stay still and unresponsive. He wanted to lean into Seishiro's hold. He wanted to feel the conductor's body warmth against his cheek. He wanted to place his hand over Seishiro's as the Maestro touched his hair and face. He wanted Seishiro to never stop looking at him like that.

Subaru wasn't sure exactly when or how, but his cheeks were wet and he couldn't stop the tears any more.

* * *

The trumpeter was crying and Seishiro wanted to hang himself. Fuuma was giving Seishiro knowing, expected looks as if the athlete didn't think much of this everyday occurrence—as though it was Seishiro's hobby to make Subaru cry. And even if that really wasn't all too far-fetched, right now, every single tear that the Maestro saw slip down Subaru's nose was like a needle through the conductor's skin.

Seishiro, to be honest, had no fucking idea what to do. He was sure Subaru had cried because of him multiple times, but the trumpeter had never cried in front of Seishiro—perhaps one or two tears, but not outright desperately, awfully crying as he was now. Not crying and crying in a way that made Seishiro's chest seize up around sharpened icicles.

All he could think to do was simply hold Subaru tighter, but that just seemed to make the sobs worsen—the tiny body in his arms was beginning to tremble violently. The trumpeter was murmuring something breathy and incoherent and pained against the cloth of Seishiro's shirt. "I can't hear you," Seishiro said softly, cupping Subaru's cheek and stroking away damp hair, wishing fucking hard that he'd learned what it took to make Subaru's tears stop since he seemed to know how to start them so fucking well. "Just breathe—just breathe, Subaru, and tell me what's wrong. Breathe—in and out."

For some fucking reason that Seishiro didn't even want to know any more, that just made Subaru cry harder. And even though the next words certainly weren't incoherent, they didn't make much sense either.

"—Pretend," Subaru hiccupped. "Just—please—pretend—let me—pretend—just this once—"

Even though Seishiro hadn't the slightest idea what the fuck Subaru was sobbing about, how could he say no? How could he refuse the trumpeter anything this late in the game? So he said softly, almost hoarsely, "Sure."

And Subaru buried his face into Seishiro's chest, throwing his body completely into Seishiro's, leaning all of his warmth, all of his perfection fully into the Maestro.

Was this pretending? How was this pretending? What was Subaru pretending?

Did Subaru think that the only way for him to be allowed to let Seishiro hold him like this was to pretend that Seishiro loved him? To pretend that Seishiro wanted him? To pretend that Seishiro never wanted to stop holding him like this? Pretend as though it wasn't Seishiro who should be pretending?

In a situation less serious, Subaru's stupidity could almost be funny.

Fuuma threw Seishiro a look that said the athlete fully agreed.

"Clingy today, aren't we?" Seishiro teased gently as he felt liquid warmth begin to seep into his shirt—if Subaru continued to cry this much, Seishiro felt as though he might set something on fire. Perhaps if he talked enough, Subaru would be distracted and stop crying, even if only momentarily.

Subaru inhaled a deep shuddering breath and pushed away from Seishiro's chest to glance up with red, raw eyes. The trumpeter opened his mouth to say something but all that came out were succeeding hiccups from the sobbing. The Maestro took Subaru's face in one hand, thumb wiping away some of the moisture on the senior's cheekbones and carefully brought their lips together.

Seishiro felt wet eyelashes brush against his face.

"You'll be all right?" the conductor asked, unable to keep his eyes from narrowing in concern. "I think it's fifteen more minutes until we get there. And I'll call your brother, okay?"

Subaru's eyes filled with apprehension and he said in a small voice, "Could you call Fai, too? Could you call him first?"

Seishiro's eyebrows wrinkled slightly with confusion. "All right." He swept some hair from Subaru's face. "Why?"

The trumpeter looked away, eyes holding pain and fondness all at once. "He helped me a lot this year."

He didn't quite know when exactly he realized this, but Seishiro realized that he hadn't been thinking about Fai at all. He hadn't been thinking of Kamui or Fai or Yuui or their reactions or how they would torture him to death once he called them. Fai's face hadn't even flashed through his mind when Subaru mentioned him. The thought that floated up in Seishiro when Subaru had said that, had said that Fai had helped him this past year (no doubt with what) was that Seishiro had no idea what Subaru's past year was.

Of course Seishiro had seen Subaru nearly every day, rarer had than not, but once Subaru stepped through the conductor's doors, it was an exchange of bodily fluids, cold and violent and sometimes bloody. But Seishiro hadn't seen Subaru—Seishiro hadn't asked how Subaru was doing, how his schoolwork fared, how his preparations for the SATs and college were going, what kind of new pieces he'd found to play on his trumpet.

For the past few years, really, Seishiro had had no idea what had gone on in Subaru's life other than the huge source of destruction that was the conductor.

And like everything else, it'd taken all of this to make Seishiro come to yet another revelation.

He missed Subaru.

He missed him too much.

He wanted to know.

He wanted to know, wanted to ask, wanted to find out what had happened during this past year, during the year before that. He wanted to know how Subaru's life had been going—he wanted to ask, wanted to talk about all the trivial little details. He wanted Subaru to be able to come bounding up to him once again with a light smile on the trumpeter's face, enthusiastically relaying the school day's events to the Maestro.

He wanted Subaru back.

He didn't want to keep pretending—he didn't want to hurt Subaru any more.

Cool fingers touched Seishiro's cheek. He looked down slowly into Subaru's concerned eyes. "Seishiro?"

"Mm?"

"I know this is a stupid question," Subaru began hesitantly, taking his hand away far, far too soon. "But—you aren't—you—" he paused "—you're not still angry, right?"

Discreetly, Seishiro and his brother exchanged glances—Fuuma's was of disbelief and Seishiro's of bitter acceptance. "What would I be angry about, Subaru?" Seishiro asked back quietly.

"I don't know," Subaru whispered. And then the trumpeter did something shocking.

He smiled.

He smiled, faintly and lightly and almost playfully. "Maybe I'm just reading the signs wrong?" Subaru said with thoughtful teasing, directing the shine of that small smile right at Seishiro. It wasn't simply the smile that'd started to undo every fiber of Seishiro's being—it was the entire appearance of that small, carefree, simple smile on the same face that held tear-reddened eyes framed with grey shadows, and skin too pale to be healthy.

He didn't know whether it was because of the expression he was unable to prevent from slipping onto his face or if it was simply time for it to expire, but the smile on Subaru's face began to fade and the trumpeter's eyebrows creased as his hand once again moved to brush against Seishiro's cheek. "Seishiro?" Subaru asked again, worried.

The car slowed.

Seishiro glanced out the window. "We're here," he said.


	27. Last Gift

**A/N: **THERE. IT'S DONE.

Well, mainly, anyway. Two storylines that were on my to-do list for Compelled have been wrapped up (only we all know, they've been unwrapped and rewrapped already in Impulse in regards to Kamui and Fuuma's, the very early chapters of Impulse that I'm sure everyone's forgotten, too, and Seishiro and Subaru's has been unwrapped and it'll be rewrapped very soon because I've finally gotten the right angle for the next chapter of S and the Maestro's Story). I think we've got two more storylines to go to get wrapped up-it could be three, I'm not sure. And then we'll call it a story and I can finally put the completed stamp on this damn thing.

If you listen to SHINee's Last Gift (which is what the theme of his chapter is centered around) which is a great tear-inducing song to go with this chapter, I'm sure you'll be able to enjoy the angst more.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Last Gift

When they got to the back entrance of the hospital that Satsuki had directed them to through the phone, the first thing that happened was Satsuki coming out of the doors, glancing at Subaru and slapping Seishiro on both cheeks with full force (there was a glimpse of Fuuma cracking a smile at the sound). Subaru was so surprised that he froze in the conductor's arms, even though Seishiro seemed to almost expect this according to the humorless smile on his face. "Hello to you, too, Satsuki."

"Bastard," she muttered, eyes narrowed as she whipped around and led them inside.

Once the warm heating of the hospital rushed around them, Seishiro silently and instantly pushed Subaru's head against the conductor's chest, one hand shielding the trumpeter's face from the view of passers-by. Subaru's heart thudded at the possible reasons for this. Either Seishiro didn't want to be seen by Subaru, or, miraculously and highly unlikely, Seishiro didn't want them to see Subaru—didn't want rumors to start _about _Subaru.

Again, last time Subaru checked, that was the sort of thing Seishiro _lived_ for—the sort of thing that gave the Maestro those warm, fuzzy, thrilling feelings.

Satsuki led them to a quiet hallway, only occupied with a nurse every so often passing them by, sometimes accompanied with patients who looked like they were here for only a check-up or some form of mild physical therapy—hardly anything noticeable, most of them looked like normal, healthy people in hospital wear.

Subaru glanced up at Seishiro, squinting his eyes a little bit because of the bright, fluorescent lighting of the halls. "I'm fine," Subaru said softly, tugging at the cloth of Seishiro's sweatshirt. "Seishiro, I don't need to be here—I'm not sick or anything."

"Really?" Seishiro asked sarcastically. "Really? Because I'd like to take a fucking picture inside your ass, show it to you, and then have you tell me that then."

The trumpeter winced at the crude phrasing and stared at his hands, cradled in his lap. "Okay—sorry." A moment went by and Subaru felt his shoulder nudged by the up-and-down of Seishiro's chest, heaving in a sigh.

"He's kind of right, y'know," Fuuma said under his breath, falling into step with Seishiro. "I'd buy something from the pharmacy and give it a few days to heal—it's not like they can move time forward or anything here, so what—_ow!_" Subaru glanced discreetly and saw Fuuma glowering confusedly at Seishiro. "Why would you ever step on a soccer player's foot?"

"Shut up, Fuuma," Seishiro said wearily, as they turned into an even emptier hallway. "My sense of peace is already lying in ruins, if you say any more to make that worse, I'm going to rip you a second asshole."

Fuuma simply grinned.

Satsuki's head turned a fraction of an inch as she stopped abruptly in front of a room at the end of the hall, right beside the emergency stairs. She faced the two brothers and nodded at the open doorway, darkness hiding a view of the room within. "Unless there's a fire, I can make sure that no one comes up here. These rooms are mainly for children and visiting parents and siblings hardly care about making conversation."

"Thanks," Seishiro said softly, staring into the room.

Satsuki's eyes narrowed. "Drop him off on the bed and I'll check him out." Her eyes flickered toward Fuuma. "Drag your doting brother away and get him something to eat—he looks like shit."

Fuuma opened his mouth.

"If you let him get any alcohol through that bastard mouth of his," Satsuki cut off, "I'll personally rip you a third asshole."

Fuuma glanced sideways at his older brother. "The way I see it, he's gonna find some way to get away from me and go binge drinking."

Subaru's eyes widened to himself. He snuck a look up at Seishiro's face and was horrified to find some agreement shining in the conductor's eyes. Subaru definitely wasn't surprised to find it there, considering the many times he'd find Seishiro passed out with bottles rolling around him on the floor after something particularly bad had happened—most of the time it was something with Fai and Yuui, something that the Maestro was in charge of cleaning up.

The trumpeter bit his lip and dug his elbow into Seishiro's stomach. The conductor glanced down and raised his eyebrows. Subaru widened his eyes further and shook his head slightly, pleading as best he could with his gaze.

Seishiro merely snorted softly, a dry half-smile tugging at his lips. He looked briskly to Satsuki and Fuuma. "I'll try my best not to pass out somewhere that won't attract attention—maybe a dark, abandoned alleyway where I'll get robbed and beaten to death."

Fuuma laughed and Satsuki's eyes narrowed even further, to the point where they were slits.

"In the meantime," Seishiro readjusted Subaru in his arms (the trumpeter imagined that the conductor was losing circulation at this point). "I'm going to put Subaru in bed so he doesn't have to watch me be a miserable, self-pitying bastard anymore."

Subaru down into his lap again and sighed. He didn't know what else he was supposed to do to make Seishiro realize that none of this was the conductor's fault and that Subaru didn't blame Seishiro for any of this. But he also knew that he sure as hell couldn't just fall silent and let Seishiro think whichever way he wanted.

Seishiro closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights with a nudge of his shoulder, revealing the plain, white hospital bed—the curtains standing next to it, a desk, and a metal stand, most likely to be used for hanging IVs. The conductor gently let Subaru down onto the bed, and began pulling out the tightly tucked in sheets, tugging them over the trumpeter's legs.

For a moment, after Subaru was settled, sitting still and not knowing where to look, Seishiro simply stood there—hands in his pockets and eyes emptily ahead.

"Seishiro—"

The conductor leaned down and kissed him.

It was brief and gentle and when Subaru opened his eyes, Seishiro was sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. Their faces were so close Subaru could watch the tops of the Maestro's eyelashes brush just underneath his eyebrows. The sophomore smiled sadly, one hand holding the side of the trumpeter's face. "You're really strong, you know?"

Subaru blinked, surprised.

"You're stronger than I'll ever be," Seishiro continued softly. His thumb brushed over Subaru's cheekbone. "You're so strong even when I hurt you so much."

"I have to be," Subaru said, smiling back tentatively.

The conductor's hand moved to the senior's damp bangs, idly brushing them this way and that way. "Yeah," he murmured, almost to himself. "But, you know, it'd be better if you're just strong—it'd be better if you don't have to make use of that strength. It'd be better if you don't have to use it because someone's hurting you."

Subaru met Seishiro's eyes, confused.

"Be careful, okay?" The Maestro tilted his head and smiled that sad smile again. "Try not to get hurt by someone who doesn't deserve you."

The trumpeter felt his eyebrows crease together. "Seishiro—"

"College is a lot harder than high school," the conductor went on. "Make sure you don't party too much—the ones who'll be teaching you aren't teachers. They're professors. There's a difference, so if you slack, it'll bite your ass later on." Seishiro's expression turned playful, and he nudged the trumpeter's shoulder. "But you're such a nerd, I doubt that'll be a problem, right?"

Subaru chuckled quietly. "Thanks so much." He glanced at Seishiro. The conductor was still smiling, but it was the kind of smile that ripped your heart out to the point where you'd rather there were tears in place of that smile. He didn't know whether it was everything that'd happened in the past hours, but he suddenly found his fingers running down Seishiro's cheek.

The Maestro covered Subaru's hand with his own. "Make up with Kamui, all right? I've given him enough heart attacks. Make sure he makes up with Yuui, too."

Subaru nodded once, never taking his eyes from Seishiro's face. He wasn't quite sure why, but it just felt odd the way Seishiro was suddenly saying all of this at once.

"And love Fai," Seishiro murmured, drawing nearer to Subaru. "And let him love you back. He's never loved anyone but Yuui before, and he's never gotten to take care of anyone. He loves you, so love him like you love Kamui."

"Yeah," Subaru whispered. Their lips were moments away from each other. His eyelids were starting to close as he sensed Seishiro's warm breath ghosting into his mouth.

Both of Seishiro's hands were cradling Subaru's face as their lips hovered too close to see but not close enough to touch. "Subaru?"

The trumpeter's head was spinning with Seishiro's proximity and scent—the way it had the first time the conductor had ever kissed him, and the way it did ever since. "Mm?"

"Thank you."

This kiss wasn't like the gentle, soft, comforting ones Seishiro had given Subaru throughout the past hours. This kiss wasn't like the biting, bitter, angry ones Seishiro had given Subaru throughout the past months. This kiss was like the ones Seishiro had given him before everything had gone wrong. Seishiro was kissing him like he'd kissed Subaru when the trumpeter had been young and full of the belief that Seishiro loved him and would only love him. Seishiro was kissing him the way he'd kissed Subaru before Subaru had learned that in the world of socialites, someone like Seishiro could never love someone like Subaru.

Seishiro was kissing him slowly and sweetly, tongues tangling but not battling, breaths mingling but not storming, lips firm and moving but not bruising, hands steady against his face but not forceful. It was the kind of kiss that had made Subaru believe that Seishiro had loved him in full perfection, in full hope, in full happiness, in full want and need and desire.

And it ended all too soon.

The conductor drew away and walked to the door. "I'll send Satsuki in, okay?" Seishiro said softly from the doorway. "You'll be fine with her. Kamui and Fai and Yuui are going to be here soon, too. Think you'll be all right?"

"Of course," Subaru offered a small smile, leaning back into the pillows.

That sad, heartbreaking smile appeared again. "Good."

Seishiro turned the knob open and his body was nearly out of the room when he suddenly spun his head around slightly and said in the quietest voice, "Bye, Subaru."

* * *

Kamui thought that maybe this was God's way of giving him coal for Christmas. He thought that maybe everything that was happening right now, that maybe the reason he was running down hospital hallways trying to find a bastard, the bastard's brother, and his own brother, maybe this was all just God trying to tell him to lay off the weed and the partying with no pants thing or at least to keep it to a minimum amount.

Or maybe it was God giving him a proper reason and time and situation for Kamui to finally get rid of the thin envelope that had been sitting in his jacket pocket for over a month. Maybe this was finally the time when Kamui could get rid of this envelope—this tiny paper envelope that, by being in his pocket, weighed him down more than a cube of steel ever could.

But whatever it was, Kamui wished that the reason he was so anxious, so nervous, so fucking scared out of his mind was because he'd just found out that Yuui and Ashura's screw-up had driven Seishiro to the boiling point and the Maestro had finally, literally, actually lost it. He'd lost it and taken it out by fucking Subaru black and blue until the trumpeter bled. And then Kamui had found out that this had been happening the entire year and now the scars on Subaru's body finally made sense.

He wished that this was all that was occupying his mind—the way it should be if Kamui was the kind of brother he wanted to be.

Except he wasn't. He wasn't and this was why he hated Fuuma. Contrary to what Subaru, Seishiro, Yuui, contrary to what everyone else thought, Kamui wasn't running away from Fuuma because he was scared of falling in love. He wasn't scared of getting hurt by Fuuma. He wasn't scared. It wasn't fear that kept him from being able to accept the fact that he loved Fuuma. It was the fact that loving Fuuma changed him.

Before Fuuma, Kamui was able to be the kind of brother he wanted to be. He was able to focus on his writing, focus on being a socialite, focus on Subaru, focus on being Yuui Fluorite's best friend, focus on the impenetrable and flawless image that was Kamui Sumeragi. After Fuuma, everything went to shit.

And he hated Fuuma for it.

He hated loving Fuuma.

He hated that the writer was such a despicable person that the only thing he could do was blame it on Fuuma when it was Kamui's own fault.

And as he walked towards the soccer player, as he walked towards where Fuuma stood at the end of the hall, alone and probably guarding Subaru's hospital door while Seishiro fucking binge drank somewhere, the surge of emotions bubbled just beneath the surface—begging to be released, to just scream it all out at Fuuma. Scream and scream and scream.

Fuuma's eyebrows rose as he caught sight of Kamui. "How 'bout Fai and Yuui?"

"I don't know if Yuui's going to come," Kamui said quietly, his heart pulsing with anger as he remembered that Yuui was yet another aspect of his life that Fuuma had ruined. "But Fai's on his way."

The athlete nodded. He reached out and squeezed Kamui's shoulder gently. "He's sleeping now—do you want to go in and wake him or see him later?"

"I'll just let him sleep," Kamui murmured. He glanced up and met Fuuma's eyes—exactly like his older brother's and yet so different. Right now, there was concern, there was worry, there was warmth (but Fuuma was always warm, always kind). "Where's Seishiro?"

Fuuma's jaw tightened. "Why?"

The writer smiled humorlessly, emptily. "I'm not going to beat him up or anything. There's no point in that now—I thought you knew that? Subaru's already basically told me to fuck out of his life. I just wanted to know, that's all."

The soccer player sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh—sorry.

Kamui stepped forward and stood on his tiptoes, arms settling around Fuuma's neck. "That's okay." He molded his body into the athlete's and waited for strong arms to wrap around his waist. He let Fuuma kiss him—let Fuuma's hands hold his face, let Fuuma lose his breath, lose his train of thought. He let Fuuma think that Kamui was simply lowering his arms to run over the soccer player's taut stomach. In split seconds, the writer had slipped the envelope from his pocket into Fuuma's.

Kamui pulled away abruptly. Fuuma's hands were still resting on the writer's slender hips. The writer kissed him one more time, briefly, on the mouth and smiled. "I'm going to get something from the cafeteria. I'll probably be back to check on him in an hour."

Fuuma bowed his head once in a nod, slowly taking his hands away. "All right. I might find Seishiro, so I don't know how long I'll stay."

"That's fine," the writer said over his shoulder.

As Kamui walked down the hall, he willed himself not to look back. He told himself that it was done and Fuuma was now no longer a part of his life and he was no longer a part of Fuuma's. It was Fuuma Sakurazuka, Seishiro Sakurazuka's younger brother and a soccer player from Maikeru who was two years younger than him. It wasn't Fuuma.

It wasn't Fuuma, the one who'd taught Kamui how to be stupid, how to be silly, how to be a teenager instead of a socialite.

It wasn't Fuuma, the one who'd let Kamui's writing soar into the skies, the one who'd let Kamui feel feelings that he'd only ever been able to experience through his characters—feelings he thought were only in stories because feelings like these could only exist in fiction.

It wasn't Fuuma, the one who'd taught Kamui that the fact that Yuui was crazier, more insane, more loved by the public, didn't mean that Kamui had to listen to everything the pianist said—because in the end, Yuui's destructive, desperate choices for entertainment would just end up in ruin for himself.

It wasn't Fuuma, the one who'd shown Kamui that strong, forever, real love didn't have to be screwed up like Ashura and Fai and Yuui, or like Seishiro and Subaru.

And he wasn't Kamui, the boy who'd fallen so inexplicably in love with this Fuuma that even saying goodbye in a letter hurt so much that he wasn't even halfway down the hall when the tears began to fall.

* * *

"_The last gift is separation."_

—"Last Gift" by SHINee


	28. Question Mark

Chapter Twenty-Seven: ?

Fai glanced from Ashura to Yuui, Yuui to Ashura, and then down to the note in his pale hands. His eyelashes brushed softly against the tops of his cheekbones as he blinked once, and then twice. "Where?"

"We don't know," Yuui said. "He's just gone."

"You're free," Ashura said.

The violinist merely smiled.


	29. 안녕

**A/N: **I'm sure that some of you will know what the hell the chapter title is, and some of you will just think what the hell. The two weird things for the chapter title are Korean characters (hangul? right? 0_0) and romanized (which is the way I'm actually more used to seeing it) it's "Annyeong" which is short and I think informal for "Annyeonghaseyo", the normal Korean greeting. Kind of like Konnichiwa, I suppose. But in short/informal, "annyeong", it's also goodbye. And I just thought it was just angst perfect that in a language, hello is the same as goodbye. Plus, there's a song that takes use of that angst, if anyone wants to listen to it, it's "Hello and Goodbye" by Shin Hyesung and Eric Mun (yeah, of Shinhwa).

I also hope everyone has had a good Christmas/Holidays and New Year's.

My resolution is to not be such a crap updater, but we all know that's probably not going to happen. -_-

JUST THE EPILOGUE TO GO, FOLKS. WE ARE IN THE HOME STRETCH FOR THIS FREAKING THING.

Oh, and after the Secrets series finishes, I've kind of had more than my fill of TRC/CLAMP, and I'm not saying that I'll never write them again, just that I want to give one of my other, much neglected fandoms a try. Maybe Bleach? Over winter break, I got into this mutantAU (which the author herself was kind of a ripoff to Xmen, but I've never even watched/read Xmen, so I didn't really care) and it was AMAZING and hilarious and not cliched at all, so I actually started a Bleach mutanthighschoolAU. I have no idea if it's any good, the pairing is Ichigo/Uryuu (because I ship that -_-) and since Rightside Reflection isn't into Bleach, I might send it to vicious-kitsune to read over and comment on to tell me if it's crap or not because it feels like crap to me. I might post it on my LJ for people to look at and tell me if it should become a full-blown story on , so keep your heads up for that.

In any case, this A/N is way too long and please just go on and read because I'm now rambling and nothing I say is relevant. TT_TT

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight: 안녕

Graduation was a time when all the tears, all the laughter, the love, the romances, the heartbreak, the misery—all the camaraderie built after burrowing through sleepless nights studying for exams, plowing through homework, just enduring yet another Monday—graduation was a time when all of the memories of high school gathered together in a hall and surged toward the ceilings with tassels and diplomas and that feeling of _finally_.

Graduation should have parties and after-parties and long drinks with soon-departing friends and last words and questions of where-are-you-going's and we'll-stay-in-touch's. It was a time to put a part of one's life to a close, put the final touches, the final vestiges of one's childhood at rest because from this point on, it was only the adult world and turning back just wasn't an option.

If it was an option, too many people would choose it.

* * *

The hallway seemed to stretch for miles, all dark and dim down the rows of neatly laid classroom doors. The walls were just as neatly lined with newspaper headliners of beautiful, smiling adolescents involved in one foundation or another, contributing some hundred thousand dollars or a sort of building. There were plaques bordering the ceiling of rich, old family names that had donated wings and huge sums of money to the school—used to buy stages and instruments and renovations year after year even though the building was never anything less than pristine.

Fai ran his fingers over one of the engraved plaques and stared into the photograph of a face that he wondered if he would ever see again. The dark, bespectacled eyes smiled emptily back at him and the violinist let his hand drop down against his thigh.

The graduation ceremony for both Maikeru and Fuki had ended just yesterday and everyone had finished getting the last of their things during the open session this morning. In estimation, it was most likely sometime late in the afternoon and Fai still didn't understand why he'd wandered around for hours after everyone had left when he himself hadn't even had much in his locker to begin with and had taken it all home weeks ago.

He'd always thought that when Kyle finally left—if he ever did—and when graduation happened, that these two events coupled would give him a sense of closure. He'd always thought that they'd all move into college with Subaru and Seishiro rejoining again at Akamizu, with Kamui promising to wait for Fuuma, with he himself and Ashura finally being able to truly be with each other, with he himself reconciling with Yuui—

Seishiro had disappeared that night with Subaru and had reemerged at Fuuka's funeral days later, refusing to speak to anyone other than adults. Kamui and Fuuma were broken. He had almost no hope left for he himself and Ashura and had more than once just thought of telling Ashura to give up because it wasn't happening any time soon and the artist had already waited too long. And Yuui—

Yuui was suddenly right behind him.

Fai had heard the footsteps seconds ago, but he hadn't bothered to turn his head and see who exactly had been approaching him. "They're locking up," the pianist said quietly. "They said since it's just us left, they'll wait another half hour until we're done."

"Oh."

Yuui's eyes shifted to the plaque. "We'll never see him again."

The violinist breathed out and smiled at the wall. "No. He'll be back."

"I won't let him near you again if he does." Yuui's eyes were too bright as he said this.

Fai slipped his palm against Yuui's, threading their fingers together slowly one by one. He swung their hands against their legs and gave his twin's hand a small tug. "Do you remember," he began softly, "when we were younger, the first few times it happened with Kyle, we cried after every single one of them and you always said that it was your fault and that we were in this together?"

"Yeah," Yuui whispered.

Fai sighed with an odd smile. "I don't remember the last time I've seen you use your inhaler."

Yuui cast his eyes to the floor. "I stopped around the beginning of seventh grade. I just used it sometimes after P.E. And—"

"And P.E. ended after sophomore year, didn't it?" Fai asked gently.

Yuui's eyes were as huge as dishes as he bore holes into the plaque, focused and unfocused at the same time—seemingly unable to look at his brother. "Yeah."

"We're not in this together anymore," Fai murmured, resting his head on his brother's thin shoulder, their identical pale blond strands mingling. "I started it for you, and no matter how far it goes, I want you to be there for me and I know you always have and always will—but it's not you and me in this anymore. It's just me. And I have to finish it on my own."

Yuui didn't outwardly respond at first. He merely continued to hold Fai's hand and stare at the wall, filled with plaques side-by-side. He remained so absolutely still that Fai could feel the rock hard tenseness in his twin's shoulder. The violinist lifted his head and stepped around so that he was standing between Yuui and the wall (between Yuui and Kyle's photograph), face-to-face with his brother. "I love you," Fai said clearly—not a whisper, not a murmur, but simply and plainly as if reciting answers to a teacher during class.

The violinist waited, not sure what he was expecting his twin to say back to him, but nevertheless, he waited and looked into those eyes—that face, those lips, that nose, those cheekbones, that pale skin—he looked at his other half, his reflection, his living and breathing mirror. He leaned in and their mouths briefly brushed together before Fai pulled his hand away to place it against his brother's face.

Yuui closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. "I love you," he whispered.

"I know," Fai whispered back, bumping their foreheads together.

* * *

If someone asked Fuuma why he was sitting in Fuki's courtyard after the school year had ended and even the teachers had finished cleaning their things out of the building, he wouldn't be able to answer. And even if he did answer, it would probably come out sounding sentimental and pathetic and the perfect epitome of a pitiful, pining dumped teenager.

Perhaps if his break-up letter had been an actual letter, filled with angsty words and reasons as to why their relationship wasn't working—perhaps then Fuuma would be able to accept it and at least attempt to move on with his life. Perhaps if the situations happening around him weren't so fucked up, he could accept this breaking-up situation as a break-up and not just an effect that could've been influenced by the fucked up situations happening around them.

But the letter wasn't even a letter, and he was almost positive that this had happened because of everything else that had happened.

And so, Fuuma was sitting in this courtyard, mostly because he wanted to get away from the clouds of absolutely dreadful and suffocating angst that had filled up every inch of the Sakurazuka house (so much so that even his parents had started to leave earlier for work and come home later) by seeping through the cracks of Seishiro's bedroom door (as he'd come home from college for the summer even though Fuuma personally was of the opinion that after all the fucking up his brother had done, the Maestro should've just gone to another country for a secluded vacation and never come back).

However, he was also sitting in this courtyard because this was exactly the place where he'd first laid eyes on Kamui—the place he'd first talked to Kamui (and the first time he'd talked to Kamui also happened to be the first time he'd pissed off Kamui). He was sitting here with the journalist's letter in hand, wondering if a miracle would fly down from heaven and bestow Fuuma with the gift of understand stupid, cryptic Kamui-Sumeragi-messages because what Kamui had written to Fuuma as a break-up letter couldn't even be classified in the format of a letter. It was only one fucking sentence:

_I'm sorry and thank you. _

When Fuuma had first read it, he'd thought it was a letter reassuring that _despite_ all the fucked up happenings going on around them, they themselves were still okay and strong. But then he'd figured that it was odd for Kamui to be that nice and then he'd figured out that Kamui had just broken up with him and finally the mental expletives started pouring through Fuuma's mind and he had been filled with the urge to grab Kamui by his thin shoulders and tell him that Fuuma didn't _want_ to be thanked for everything that he'd done for the writer, he just wanted the writer and that he'd never do anything like Seishiro did to Subaru and that Subaru would want Kamui to be happy and that _why didn't Kamui trust Fuuma_—

So yeah.

That was why Fuuma was sitting here like a heartbroken idiot with a piece of paper clutched in his hand.

It wasn't really anything like he hoped that Kamui would miraculously drop by and they'd make up before the beautiful sunset, and then proceed to drive to either of their houses and have beautiful make-up sex until sunrise. But at the very least, Fuuma wondered that maybe if he sat here long enough, some semblance of understanding would come to him and he could at least resign himself to this turn out, since right now he knew fuck about what had gone on in Kamui's mind.

He just wanted to know.

It'd be tempting, but he'd already told himself that if he was just given the chance to ask Kamui as to why they had to break up, he wouldn't stop the writer from leaving. If that was what Kamui wanted, then Fuuma wasn't about to fuck things up more and try to stop him.

He just wanted to know what he'd done wrong.

He also wanted to know if it'd be too much to ask for his heart back—because it was hard to repair something you couldn't even hold in your hands.

* * *

Kamui gripped the steering wheel. He didn't know why, but for some reason, he hadn't wanted their driver to bring them to the funeral. Nor had he wanted the driver to drive them to Fuki to get the last of their things after the graduation ceremony. He braked softly before the red light and leaned his head back against the seat, glancing sideways without moving his neck at his brother.

The trumpeter stared straight ahead, expression empty and eyes unseeing—the same face he'd worn for the past few weeks, and the face that Kamui was secretly terrified he'd wear for the rest of his life if something drastic didn't change it. He wasn't sure what was worse—this emptiness or the horrific, terrifying, scary as fucking hell sobbing and nightmares that'd gone on for almost three days after—after—after—

Kamui sighed. And then Subaru had just slept. The trumpeter had slept the next two days almost completely through, waking sometimes to pad to the bathroom and eat—that'd been a reassuring thing, though. At least he'd eaten. At least he was still eating. Subaru had been physically injured, extremely true, but sometimes Satsuki had put him on an oxygen mask just because she'd been afraid that screaming might start. It never did, but the sobbing had been so hysterical and unrestrained that Satsuki hadn't been the only one afraid that this would turn out into an awful clichéd traumatized movie scene.

Worst of all—_worst of all_—

This had all happened because Subaru thought Seishiro had simply finally had enough—upped and left without saying a single warning or reason to the trumpeter. This had hall happened because Subaru thought that Seishiro had finally went past the breaking point and that it'd all been Subaru's fault that Seishiro had exiled himself like this.

When in fact, Subaru had been and was and would be the only one that never knew about how Seishiro had merely isolated himself on the opposite end of the hospital, drinking himself to oblivion until passing nurses found out and confiscated the alcohol. Seishiro had drunk himself stupid, vomited, had been found and cleaned by Fuuma and Yuui, and then the bastard had slipped into Subaru's room during the night and sat watch over the trumpeter until morning came.

Then Seishiro, to Kamui's knowledge, had gone home, changed, drunk himself retarded again, and returned to the hospital to watch Subaru sleep once more. The Maestro repeated this cycle until Subaru left the hospital after one horrific, anxious week. For all Fai and Yuui had told Kamui—with fucking sympathy in their voice for their precious Maestro, no less—that Seishiro hadn't slept a wink, probably had run more than just a few bars out of business, Kamui simply couldn't bring himself to stop being furious.

And he couldn't see a reason why he _should_ stop.

"I don't understand," Kamui said suddenly, as the light turned green and he stepped softly on the gas pedal.

Subaru said nothing.

"—why you love him," the writer continued.

They drove through the rest of the town, no words being exchanged at all, and Kamui thought that Subaru probably wasn't going to reply. Under normal circumstances, and even under abnormal circumstances, Subaru was always prepared and ready to defend why he loved Seishiro—to defend Seishiro's fucking redeeming qualities even though Kamui thought that the only way for Seishiro to have a redeeming quality was to be dead.

It wasn't until Kamui parked into their driveway that Subaru spoke.

His brother's voice was quiet, calm with just the most infinitesimal hint of curiosity and thoughtfulness. "You know," he said softly. "I don't understand any more either."

* * *

Yuui had gone on to the waiting car—their car, but they'd borrowed Ashura's driver. Fai had promised to be there soon after he took a detour through the courtyard to pat a despondent Fuuma on the shoulder, and then went on into Maikeru. He'd only been in the opposing high school a few times here and there, not enough to know the full layout, but enough to guess where he was headed to and avoid getting lost. He, at the very least, could find his way to the different practice rooms.

And it was without hesitation that Fai opened the door to the martial arts room, finding exactly who he'd expected would be practicing himself to delirious exhaustion on the mats. Fai took off his shoes and padded across the room, stopping just a few feet shy from the boy with dark blond hair matted to his face by drips upon drips of perspiration.

Senryuu halted midway preparing for a roundhouse kick. He put his leg down and looked at Fai. For a long moment, they simply gazed at each other with expectant expressions. "I'm sorry," Senryuu finally whispered.

Fai broke into a smile—it felt strange on his face, so he took that maybe it was a genuine one—he couldn't really tell. "It's not your fault—none of it."

The sophomore—now junior, Fai supposed, since the school year had ended—cast his eyes to the floor.

"It's not your fault," Fai repeated, a bit more insistently this time. "So don't even bother listening to whatever comes out of Seishiro's mouth—he's just pissy because he's made the biggest mistake of his life and doesn't know how to fix it."

Senryuu didn't reply.

Fai took the athlete's wrist and tugged slightly. "Come on," he continued softly, "We'll drive you home. You've got so much sweat that it looks like you were running in a rainstorm."

Senryuu didn't move, still avoiding Fai's eyes.

Fai sighed, and smiled. "Yuui's not going to kill you—he knows it's not your fault. In fact, I think he's kind of thankful to you. Now come on—you're too tall for me to drag you by force."

Silver blue eyes met pale blue and Fai was almost surprised to see desperation. Senryuu's lips were tight, and his gaze was frightened. "You're leaving," he whispered. "What am I supposed to do? I still love him. I still love him and then next year, he's going to leave too."

The musician reached up and cupped Senryuu's face. "I hate goodbyes," Fai said, his lips quirking upward. "I absolutely fucking loathe them. I hate them and hate them and hate them."

Senryuu looked utterly lost.

Fai smiled, eyes dancing. "The only thing decent about goodbyes," he paused to brush his lips carefully across the athlete's. "The only thing good about goodbyes is that even if it takes years and years, even if it takes crying and screaming and fighting—no matter what it takes—after a goodbye, even if it's completely different people—"

He gazed directly into Senryuu's eyes. "—there will always be a hello."

* * *

Fai followed Senryuu across the courtyard, noticing that Fuuma had already left. He ducked through the sequence of arches, eyes narrowing reflexively as a gently biting spring breeze cut through. It was just a moment of blindness, but he supposed that a moment was good as any, and he felt himself bump shoulders with someone who was too broad to be Senryuu—and clearly going the opposite direction that he and Senryuu were headed.

"Oh, sorry," Fai said automatically, his head turning back quickly.

But the boy had already passed them, well on his way nearly finished with the maze of arches that lead to the courtyard. The only thing Fai could make of him before the musician turned back to continue on to the car was shorn black spiky hair.

Although for some reason, bright ruby red popped up into his mind too.


End file.
